"The saints protect us, miss—ma'am! Sure, it's the old gentleman himself—as large as life, indeed. 'Is the missis home?' says he, and before I can draw breath—'Tell her Mr. Prescott is waitin' on her, and would like to see the young ladies,' says he. And he sticks his soakin' umbrella in the corner, and without takin' off his overshoes, stalks into the livin'-room. 'Humph!' says he, seein' the hole in the carpet, 'that's dangerous. I like to have broken me neck. Be good enough to hurry, ma'am,' says he, 'an' don't stand gawpin' at me like a simpleton.' 'Will ye have a seat, sir?' says I. 'I will, when I want one,' says he, short-like, and there he stands standin' and starin' around him, and suckin' at his lips, and kinda talkin' to hisself. What shall I be tellin' him, ma'am?"
This bomb seemed to have paralyzed the little family.
"I—I—tell him——" stammered Mrs. Prescott, looking piteously at Nancy for help.
"You'd better go right down, Mother. Why, you look frightened to death, dear."
"I am. He frightens me dreadfully. I can't bear sarcastic people. Do go down alone, Nancy,—tell him I have a headache."
"No, no! That wouldn't be wise. What can he say? He may want to be very nice," said Nancy, reassuringly. "Come along—don't keep him waiting. Here, just tuck up your hair a bit. Come on, Alma."
Inwardly quaking, but outwardly preserving a dignified composure, the three descended the staircase, with the calmness of people going to some inevitable fate.
"He can't bite you, dear," whispered Nancy to her mother, with a nervous little giggle.
Mr. Prescott was standing perfectly still, with his back toward the door, staring with an evidently absorbed interest at the wall in front of him. He turned slowly, as Mrs. Prescott entered the room, and for a moment surveyed her and the two girls without speaking. Then he said, casually:
"Good-afternoon, Lallie."