“Rather a sad family history,” said Mr Mervyn.
“Ay, sad enough,” said the woman; “and now the young squire’s coming home at last from sea, but he’ll never be such a man as his father.”
“Think not?” said Mr Mervyn, musing.
“Sure not,” said the old woman. “Why, he was petted and spoiled by those Lloyds while he was a boy, and a pretty limb he was. Him and that young Lloyd was always in some mischief. Pretty pranks they played me. I’ve been out with the stick to ’em scores of times; but he was generous—I will say that—and many’s the conger and bass he’s brought me here, proud of ’em as could be, because he caught them himself.”
“Well, Mrs Trelyan, we must say good morning,” said Tiny, rising and taking the old lady’s hand. “Is there anything you would like—anything we can bring you?”
“No, child, no,” said the old lady; “I don’t want anything. If you’d any good tea, I’d use a pinch; but I’m not asking for it, mind that.”
“Where’s your snuff-box, granny?” said Mr Mervyn, bringing out a small canister from his pocket.
“Oh, it’s here,” said the old lady, fishing out and opening her box to show it was quite empty. “I don’t know that I want any, though.”
“Try that,” said Mr Mervyn, filling it full; and the old lady took a pinch. “That’s not bad, is it?”
“N-n-no, it’s not bad,” said the old lady, “but I’ve had better.”