"I kind o' 'spect you've forgotten me, Mister Cotton. I used to work in them days at Farmer Humphrey's, up Wood-lane. You have grow'd an old-looking man since I seed you last. You were young and spry enough then. I didna b'leeve the tales that volk did tell of 'un—that you were the Squire's own son. But you be as loike him now as two peas. The neebors wor right arter all."
The stranger winced, and turned pale.
"They say as how you've grow'd a rich man yoursel' since that time. Is the old 'uman, your mother, livin' still?"
"She is dead," said Noah, turning his back abruptly on the interrogator, and addressing himself to the mistress of the house. "Mrs. Mason, I have been very ill. I feel better, but the fit has left me weak and exhausted. Can you give me a bed and a room to myself, where I could sleep the effects of it quietly off?"
"My beds are engaged," was the curt reply of the surly dame. "Pray how long have you been subject to those fits?"
"For several years. Ever since I had the typhus fever. And now the least mental anxiety brings them on."
"So it appears. Particularly the sight of an old friend when least expected. This is strange," and she smiled significantly; "for he was, both living and dead, a kind friend to you."
"He was indeed," sighed the stranger. "It was not until after I lost him, that I knew how much I was indebted to him." Then suddenly turning from her, he looked stedfastly towards the open door. "It rains cats and dogs, mother; you surely cannot refuse me a bed on such a night?"
"I have already told you, I have no bed to spare. To speak the plain truth," added she, with a grim smile, "I don't like your hang-dog face, and want none of your company. If you're afraid of a shadow, you are either a great coward, or a big fool. I despise both characters. If not, you are a designing rogue, and enough of such folks come here every night."
"I will pay you well for the accommodation," urged Noah, without noticing or resenting Martha's malignant speech.