In a few minutes, a plainly-dressed, middle-aged woman entered the room.
"My dear foster-mother! Is that you?" said Anthony, springing to meet her.
"Why yees, Muster Anthony," said the honest creature, flinging her arms round his neck, and imprinting on either cheek a kiss that rang through the room; while she laughed and cried in the same breath. "The Lord love you! How you bees grown. Is this here fine young gentleman the poor half-starved little chap that used to come begging to Ruth Candler for a sup o' milk and a morsel o' bread? Well, yer bees a man now, and able to shift for yoursel, whiles I be a poor old woman, half killed by poverty and hard work. When you come in for your great fortin, don't forget old Ruth."
"Indeed I will not, my good mother; if ever that day arrives, I shall know how to reward my old friends. But you make a strange mistake, Ruth, when you call yourself old. You look as young as ever. And how are all my old play-fellows?"
"Some dead; some in service; and my eldest gal, Mr. Anthony, is married to a Methody parson, only think, my Sally, the wife of a Methody parson."
"She was a good girl."
"Oh, about as good as the rest on us. And, pray, how do old Shock come along? Is the old dog dead?"
"Of old age, Ruth. He got so fat and sleek in my uncle's house, you never would have known the poor starved brute."
"In truth, you were a poverty pair—jist a bag o' bones the twain o' ye. I wonder the old Squire warn't ashamed to see you walk the earth. An' they do tell me, Measter Anthony, that he be jist as stingy as ever."
"Age seldom improves avarice."