"Will you, honey?" said the old woman, mollifying instantly. "Well den, 'spose you couldn't help it. Get up, Jeffy."
"Can you tell me whether Mrs. —— lives on any of the floors of this house?" asked Crawford.
"Nebber mind dat, till you gib me de money!" answered the old woman, not to be diverted by any side-issues. "Dat are pitcher cost a quarter, honey!"
Crawford was feeling in his pocket for one of the quarters that yet remained in that receptacle, preparatory to going out of circulation altogether,—when the old crone, eager for the money, stuck her candle somewhat nearer his face than it had before been held. Instantly her withered face assumed a new expression of intelligence, and her hand shook so that she almost dropped the candle, as she cried:
"Merciful Lord and Marser! If dat are ain't young Egbert Crawford!"
"My name is certainly Egbert Crawford!" said that individual, very much surprised in his turn. "But who are you that know me?"
"Don't know his ole Aunt Synchy!" exclaimed the old woman.
"Aunt Synchy! Aunt Synchy!" said the lawyer, trying to recollect the past very rapidly, and catching some glimmers. "What? Aunt Synchy that used to live at—"
"Used to live at old Tom Crawford's. Lor bress you, yes! Why come in, honey!" and before the lawyer could answer further, he was literally dragged through the dingy door by the still vigorous old woman, and found himself inside her apartment, Master Jeffy and his pitcher being left neglected on the entry floor.
Once within the door, and in the better light afforded even by the dingy windows, Crawford had a better opportunity to observe the old woman, and he now found no difficulty in recalling something more than the name. She might have been sixty-five or seventy years of age, to judge by the wrinkles on her face and the white of her eyebrows, though her hair was hidden under a gaudy and dirty cotton plaid handkerchief and her tall form seemed little bowed by age. Two coal-black eyes, showing no diminution of their natural fire, gleamed from under those white eyebrows; and on the portions of the cheeks yet left smooth enough to show the texture of the skin, there were deep gashes that had once been the tattooing of her barbarian youth and beauty. Her hands were withered, much more than her face, and seemed skinny and claw-like. Her dress, which had once been plaid cotton gingham, was fearfully dirty and unskilfully patched with other material; and the frayed silk shawl thrown around her old shoulders might have been rescued from a rag-heap in the streets to serve that turn.