“Somewhere about that,” replied William; and his countenance, already ruddy in the sunset glow, assumed a still deeper tint.
“Well, I never!” returned the other with a shout of laughter. “She be gettin’ on pretty well, now—I d’ ’low she’ll be a staid woman by the time you wed her.”
William shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “I d’ ’low she be worth waitin’ for. She be wonderful clever, Martha be—an’ that sprack! No, I don’t regret it—not at all I don’t.”
“Bain’t the wold man anyways comin’ round?” inquired his friend with his head on one side.
“No,” returned Faithfull gloomily. “Not at all. But he be so terr’ble punished, poor wold chap, one can’t expect rayson off he.”
“’Tis the rheumatics, bain’t it?” was the next query in a commiserating tone.
“’Tis the sky-attics,” replied the carpenter, not without a certain pride in his pseudo-father-in-law’s distinguished ailment. “There, he be so scraggled as anything—all doubled up by times. Martha do say he goes twisty-like same as a eel, when it do take en real bad.”
“Lard, now!” ejaculated the other.
“’E-es,” said William, shaking his head—“that’s how it do take en. So, as Martha do say, ye can’t expect the onpossible. ‘If my father,’ says she, ‘be so scram-like in his out’ard man, how can ye look for en to act straight-forrard? He’ve a-set his mind again’ the notion of us gettin’ wed, so we must just wait till he be underground. And then,’ says she, ‘I’ll not keep ’ee waitin’ a minute longer.’”