“Ay, and you was as bright and quick as now you’re—Well, never mind that, my dear. Better be an angel as can’t walk about than some beautiful gels as can.”
“Why, Moredock,” said Salis, laughing, “was that meant for a compliment?”
“I dunno, parson,” said the old man, staring hard at Mary; “’tis only what I felt. Heaven bless her! I never see her face wi’out thinking o’ stained glass windows, wi’ wire outside to keep away the stones; and I says, may no stones never be throwed at her.”
The old man gulped down his tea, and rose to go.
“You’ll be on at vestry room, sir?”
“Yes, Moredock; and once more I’m glad it’s no worse.”
“Like me to go over in Badley’s donkey-cart, sir, to tell the police?”
“Well, yes, Moredock. We must give notice about the scoundrels, I suppose, or they may come again.”
“Mornin’, then, sir, and my service to you, Miss Mary, and thankye kindly, my dear,” said the old man, hobbling off without a word or look at Leo; and, oddly enough, as he reached the road he wiped a tear from each of his watery eyes.
“And so she is,” he muttered, “a real angel. My Dally never said, ‘Have a cup o’ tea, gran’fa; you’re hot and tired.’ Ah! gels is made different, but my Dally’s worth two o’ that tother one.”