“What did he say?”
“Called I an old fool.”
“But your grandchild. Did you speak to her?”
“Ay, course I did; but you might as well talk to yon cobble. She just laughed, and give her pretty head a toss. She is a pretty gal, parson.”
“Far too pretty, Moredock.”
“Oh! I don’t know ’bout that, sir. Think young Tom wants to marry her? I’ll put down a hundred pound the day she’s wed.”
“You will, Moredock? Why, I thought you were very poor.”
“So I am, parson, so I am; but I’ve saved up for the gal. But you keep her in more; it’ll make him more hungry arter her, and I’d like to see her mistress up at the Hall.”
“Moredock!” cried the curate, in horrible perplexity.
“Well, I should,” said the old man, grinning. “Squire’s drinking hisself to death as fast as he can, and he won’t marry; so young Tom’s sure to get the place. But you keep her in.”