"I don't see how I am going to get out, Mr. Underhill."
"Step up on there, can't you — I'll hold her, — can you jump?" —
"But Mr. Underhill, that's going to do no good to my boat. —"
"What aint? —"
"That gravel — grating and grinding on it, as the tide makes."
"'Twon't do nothin' — it'll just stay still so. Well, you go in and speak to mother, and I'll see to her. I didn't know you could row so smart, — real handsome!"
"I learnt a good while ago," said Elizabeth. "I'll not be gone long, Mr. Underhill."
Up the neglected green slope she ran, wondering at herself the while. What new steps were these, which Miss Haye was not taking for her own pleasure. What a strange visit was this, which her heart shrank from more and more as she neared the house door.
The house was tenanted by sundry younger fry of the feminine gender, of various ages, who met Elizabeth with wonder equal to her own, and a sort of mixed politeness and curiosity to which her experience had no parallel. By the fireside sat the old grandam, very old, and blind, as Elizabeth now perceived she was. Miss Haye drew near with the most utter want of knowledge what to do or say to such a person, — how to give the pleasure she had come to give. She hoped the mere fact of her coming and presence would do it, for to anything further she felt herself unequal. The old lady looked up curiously, hearing the noise of entering feet and a stranger's among them.
"Will you tell your grandmother who I am," Elizabeth asked, with a shy ignorance how to address her, and an exceeding reluctance to it.