‘That may be very true,’ said Mrs. Sandford; ‘but a little village like this is not the place to get work, I’m afraid; for there is nothing to do here.’
‘No, lady,’ said the man; ‘and it wasn’t so much work I was looking for this morning, as to do a good turn to a mate o’ mine, as was with me, I needn’t say where. Maybe ye may know, lady, as it can be seen you’re a charitable lady. Maybe you can tell where I’ll find a Missis May——’
Mrs. Sandford’s little outline quivered for a moment, but her face did not change. She shook her head.
‘There is nobody,’ she said, ‘of that name in this village. I know all the people, as you say. I think there was a woman called May about here a number of years ago, but she has removed, and where she has gone I can’t say.’
‘Ah, that’s like enough,’ said the man; ‘it’s a long time, and maybe she might not want the folks belonging to her to know.’
‘Was it news you were bringing her?’ Mrs. Sandford said. ‘That was very kind of you—but perhaps she would rather you didn’t tell her affairs to everybody, and that her husband was——’
‘I didn’t say nothing about her ’usband,’ said the man, quickly.
‘Oh! was it her son then, poor creature? for that is still worse,’ the old lady said.
He looked at her keenly with the instinct of one who, deceiving himself, has a constant fear of being deceived; but to see the little Lady Bountiful of the village standing there with her basket, her fresh face as fresh as a child’s, her limpid eyes looking at him with an air of pity yet disapproval, and to imagine that she was taking him in was impossible even to a soul accustomed to consider falsehood the common-place of existence.
‘It was her ’usband,’ he said, sullenly, ‘and I don’t care much if she liked it or not. She oughter like it if she didn’t, for it was news of him I was bringing, and I could tell her all about him—being mates for a matter of seven years, him and me.’