“Will you come down to the parlor with me, Mr. Leeson, or shall I explain here?”
“You do not stir a step from this place until you tell me.”
“Then I will, sir—I will. I have been living in this house for the last six weeks. During that time I have paid Miss Sylvia, and she has had money enough to keep the breath of life within her. Be thankful that I came, Mr. Leeson, for you owe me much, and I owe you nothing. Ah! do you recognize me now? The gipsy—forsooth!—the gipsy who gave you a recipe for making the old hen tender! Ha, ha! I laugh as I thought never to laugh again when I recall that day.”
Mr. Leeson stood cold and white, looking full at Jasper. Suddenly a great dizziness took possession of him; he stretched out his hand wildly.
“There is something wrong with me,” he said. “I don’t think I am well.”
“Poor old gentleman!” said Jasper—“no wonder!” and her voice became mild. “The shock of it all, and the confusion! Sakes alive! I am not going to take you into that icy bedroom of yours. Lean on me. There now, sir. You have not lost a penny by me; you have saved, on the contrary, and I have kept your daughter alive, and I have given you the best food, made out of the tenderest chickens, out of my own money, mark you—out of my own money—for weeks and weeks. Come down-stairs, sir; come and I will get you a bit of breakfast.”
“I—cannot—see,” muttered Mr. Leeson again.
“Well then, sir, I suppose you can feel. Anyhow, here is a good, strong right arm. Lean on it—all your weight if you like. Now then, we will get down-stairs.”
Mr. Leeson was past resistance. Jasper pulled his shaky old hand through her arm, and half-carried, half-dragged him down to the parlor. There she put him in a big armchair near the fire, and was bustling out of the room to get breakfast when he called her back.
“So you really are the woman who had the recipe for making old hens tender?”