"Well, but as to 'feeling the burthen of years,' that's putting it too strong," said Mrs. Dobbs. "You have no right to feel that burthen yet awhile. Why, you must be—let me see!—under fifty-three."
"Fifty-three last birthday."
"Ay; I wasn't far out. Lord, that's no age! I might be your mother, Mr. Bragg."
"I'm glad to hear you say so!—I mean, I'm glad you don't think me too old—not quite an old fellow, in short."
"No; to be sure not!"
Mr. Bragg was silent for fully a minute. Then he said, "Well, whether I'm quite an old fellow or not, I'm too old to trust much to the day after to-morrow. So, if not inconvenient to you, Mrs. Dobbs, I should like to say a few words to you about a matter that has been on my mind for some little time."
"Certainly, Mr. Bragg. I'm quite at your service."
Mr. Bragg looked slowly round the little parlour; looked out of the window at the tiny garden; looked at Mr. Weatherhead; finally looked at Mrs. Dobbs again, and said, "It's a private matter."
"I had better go, Sarah," said Jo. "I shall look round again at tea-time;" and he made a show of rising from his chair, very slowly and reluctantly.
"Oh, perhaps you've no call to go away, Jo. I have no business secrets from my brother-in-law, Mr. Bragg. He is my oldest and best friend in the world."