"Tell us, Dave dear, about old Mrs. Marrowbone. Is she very old? Is she
as old as me?" To which Aunt M'riar as a sort of Greek chorus
added:--"There, Davy, now, you be a good boy, and tell how old Mrs.
Marrowbone is."

Dave considered. "She's not the soyme oyge," said he. "She can walk to
chutch and back, Sunday morning." But this was a judgment from physical
vigour, possibly a fallible guide. Dave, being prompted, attempted
description. Old Mrs. Marrowbone's hair was the only point he could
seize on. A cat, asleep on the hearthrug, supplied a standard of
comparison. "Granny Marrowbone's head's the colour of this," said Dave,
with decision, selecting a pale grey stripe. And Widow Thrale's was like
that--one with a deeper tone of brown, with scarcely any perceptible
grey.

"And which on Pussy is most like mine, Dave?" said Mrs. Prichard. There
was no hesitation in the answer to this. It was "that sort";--that is,
the colour of Pussy's stomach, unequivocal white. And which did Dave
like best--an unfair question which deserved and got a Parliamentary
answer. "All free," said Dave.

But this was merely colour of hair, a superficial distinction. How about
Granny Marrowbone's nose. "It's the soyme soyze," was the verdict, given
without hesitation. What colour were her eyes? "Soyme as yours." But
Dave was destined to incur public censure--Aunt M'riar representing the
public--for a private adventure into description. "She's more teef than
you," said he candidly.

"Well, now, I do declare if ever any little boy was so rude! I never
did! Whatever your Uncle Moses would say if he was told, I can't think."
Thus Aunt M'riar. But her attitude was artificial, for appearance sake,
and she knew perfectly well that Uncle Moses would only laugh and
encourage the boy. The culprit did not seem impressed, though ready to
make concessions. Yet he did not really better matters by
saying:--"She's got some teef, she has"; leaving it to be inferred that
old Mrs. Prichard had none, which was very nearly true. The old lady did
not seem the least hurt. Nor was she hurt even when Dave--seeking merely
to supply accurate detail--added, in connection with the old hand that
wandered caressingly over his locks and brows:--"Her hands is thicker
than yours is, a lot!"

"I often think, Mrs. Wardle," said she, taking no advantage of the new
topic offered, "what we might be spared if only our teeth was less
untrustworthy. Mine stood me out till over fift