yer father would 'a bin if so be
the Lord 'ad carried 'im upright to this present?"

"He seems a little older than father was when he died,"--answered Mary,
in slow, thoughtful accents--"But perhaps it is only trouble and illness
that makes him look so. He's very gentle and kind. Indeed,"--here she
paused for a second--then went on--"I don't know whether it's because
I've been nursing him so long and have got accustomed to watch him and
take care of him--but I've really grown quite fond of him!"

Mrs. Twitt gave a short laugh.

"That's nat'ral, seein' as ye're lone in life without 'usband or
childer,"--she said--"There's a many wimmin as 'ud grow fond of an Aunt
Sally on a pea-stick if they'd nothin' else to set their 'arts on. An'
as the old chap was yer father's friend, there's bin a bit o' feelin'
like in lookin' arter 'im. But I wouldn't take 'im on my back as a
burgin, Mis' Deane, if I were you. Ye're far better off by yerself with
the washin' an' lace-mendin' business."

Mary was silent.

"It's all very well,"--proceeded Mrs. Twitt--"for 'im to say 'e knew yer
father, but arter all _that_ mayn't be true. The Lord knows whether 'e
aint a 'scaped convick, or a man as is grown 'oary-'edded with 'is own
wickedness. An' though 'e's feeble now an' wants all ye can give 'im,
the day may come when, bein' strong again, 'e'll take a knife an' slit
yer throat. Bein' a tramp like, it 'ud come easy to 'im an' not to be
blamed, if we may go by what they sez in the 'a'penny noospapers. I mind
me well on the night o' the storm, the very night ye went out on the
'ills an' found 'im, I was settin' at my door down shorewards watchin'
the waves an' hearin' the wind cryin' like a babe for its mother, an' if
ye'll believe me, there was a sea-gull as came and flopped down on a
stone just in front o' me!--a thing no sea-gull ever did to me all the
time I've lived 'ere, which is thirty years since I married Twitt. There
it sat, drenched wi' the rain, an' Twitt came out in that slow, silly
way 'e 'as, an' 'e sez--'Poor bird! 'Ungry, are ye? an' throws it a
reg'lar full meal, which, if you believe me, it ate all up as cool as a
cowcumber. An' then----"

"And then?" queried Mary, with a mirthful quiver in her voice.

"Then,--oh, well, then it flew away,"--and Mrs. Twitt seemed rather
sorry for this commonplace end to what she imagined was a thrilling
incident--"But the way that bird looked at me was somethin' awful! An'
when I 'eerd