She paused suddenly, a slow grin dawning on her face.
“She don’t seem to ha’ done so very bad for herself, after all,” she remarked, and vanished.
SWEETBRIAR LANE.
“There they go,” said Grandmother Legg, “a-marchin’ off together so happy as a king and a queen.”
Susan Ball, a visitor from the town, craned her head round the door-post and gazed after the young couple with interest. David Samson, a big broad-shouldered, rather awkward looking young fellow was walking arm-in-crook with Rebecca Yeatman, Mrs. Legg’s orphan granddaughter. A little slender fair-haired thing, lissom and graceful in all her movements was Rebecca—she looked like an elf as she paced along beside her cumbersome lover.
“They’ve a-been a-courtin’ a long time, haven’t they, mum?” queried Miss Ball.
“They’ve a-been coortin’,” responded Grandmother Legg emphatically, “since they was no higher than nothin’ at all. Dear, yes! he’d come Sunday after Sunday same as if they was reg’lar coortin’ folk, an’ Rebecca, she’d lay down her doll, and fetch her hat, an’ walk off so serious as a grown-up maid. Poor Legg—he had all his senses then same as anybody else—he’d laugh fit to split he would.”
Miss Ball looked towards the chimney corner where Grandfather Legg was now installed and received from that worthy old gentleman a smile calculated to give any weak-minded person a “turn,” accompanied by some unintelligible remark delivered in a quavering treble. Miss Ball, who was not troubled with nerves, smiled back at him and nodded cheerfully.
“He haven’t got no wits at all now, mum, have he?” she inquired parenthetically of Mr. Legg’s better-half. “But we was a-talkin’ of Rebecca. I do ’low she an’ David ’ull be gettin’ married one o’ these days?”
Grandmother Legg screwed up her mouth and shook her head dubiously.