“Please, ma’am, that is my husband,” answered my mother, courtesying.
“What is he?” inquired the old lady.
“A sailor, ma’am.”
“Eh, my son is a sailor, my Jack is a sailor, and I love sailors for his sake. Let him come in. Come in, sailor, and put those bundles down; they may tire you. There, sit down and rest yourself. And this is the little girl my son wrote about. Let me see her, Mrs—what is your name?”
“Burton, ma’am,” answered my mother.
“Let me see her, Mrs Burton. A very pretty sweet little damsel she is; and whose child is she, do you say?”
“That is what we do not know, ma’am,” answered my mother.
“And I am sure I do not,” said the old lady, who, I should observe, never was at a loss for a remark.
“Well, that does not much signify; we shall like her for herself. And who is that little boy?”
“That is my son, ma’am,” answered my mother.