Now I do not say that I thought all that then. I desire to be exact in the smallest details. I merely smiled, perhaps a little grimly, and rapped out the correction—"Joseph Yarrow, Senior."
I knew that would surprise her. For I must have had the reputation of being in my grave for many days before the wretched crew at Deep Moat Grange got hold of her.
Then very falteringly was rapped out the further question: "Are you really Joe's father?"
I replied that I had been given to believe so, but that Joe's apparent conduct might well give rise to doubts.
The answer came back at once:
"You don't mean that, Mr. Yarrow!"
Which, I will own, fairly conquered me—almost made me laugh, and though an old man, I felt quite warm about the heart. Now, when I came to think of it, I had always liked to see Elsie Stennis tripping about the village streets. One picture I was foolish enough to remember—a dingy November day after it had been raining, and Elsie going to school to her teaching. She was crossing the little dirty place in front of Ebie McClintock's forge, and she stooped to pick up her skirts, giving them a little shake, and then hopped across with her nose in the air—pert and pretty as a robin redbreast.
No fool like an old fool. I am speaking to you—Mr. Joseph Yarrow, Senior.