"Me and her are Mrs. Bindon."
"I--I suppose there's some joke intended. Or, perhaps, this lady is your daughter?"
"Sakes alive! Between Bashemath and me there are not twelve months."
"No, Deborah," said the other lady, "nor yet eleven."
"And as for joking, stranger, I'd have you know that I'm no jokist. Bashemath and me have had to walk up from the depôt. The driver said his carriage wouldn't hold no more than seven. We didn't see the use of a carriage just for Bashemath and me, being both of a saving mind."
"You will be glad to hear," remarked Mr. Harland, as he led the way to Mulberry House, a lady on either side of him, "that your sons all enjoy good health."
"Lord save the man!" cried the lady with the glasses, "you don't suppose all them byes is mine. I've one of 'em, and he's enough--the limb! I've seven daughters, but they're Samuel Newton's, who is dead. The rest of them byes are Mr. Bindon's."
"Are there"--Mr. Harland slightly coughed--"are there several Mr. Bindons?"
The lady pulled up short. She turned and faced the gentleman.
"Stranger, are you just sarsing?"