"She respected my father's wishes," said the young fellow, and Mr. Graydon detected a note of coldness in the voice which had been so tender when he spoke of his dead father.
"Ah, here we are," said Mr. Graydon, as they turned into a tiny street of mud cabins and drew up in front of a general shop. "Just take the reins for a minute while I give Mrs. Lennan my daughter's orders. Oh, is it yourself, Mrs. Lennan? You shouldn't have troubled to come out. You're looking bonny in spite of the hot weather."
"The same to you, Mr. Graydon," said the little rosy-cheeked woman, curtseying. "What can I do for your honour to-day?"
"I've a list here as long as a woman's tongue, Mrs. Lennan, though the tongue isn't yours or we'd wish it to be always wagging. Let me see—here it is: soap, candles, matches—there, you'd better take it inside and get Mike to read it for you. He's a fine scholar, I hear."
"Indeed, then, he is, sir, though his mother oughtn't to be talkin' about it. Thank you, sir. I'll put the things together in less time than you'd say them over."
While they waited in the village street, Mr. Graydon beguiled the time by genial gossip with every man, woman, and child who came the way.
"How well you get on with the people, sir," Sir Anthony could not help saying.
"Do you think so?" said Mr. Graydon, with a little surprise. "You see, we've known each other so long. Things and people change little in these out-of-the-way places."
"I couldn't do it, if it was to save my life. Besides, the people where I come from wouldn't understand it."
"Ah, I suppose not. We Irish are more of a large family—which is, perhaps, the reason why we wrangle sometimes."