“You can talk like Day o’ Pentecost,” he said, admiring. “But don’t tell us ye can’t beat the old house afire at cookin’! I says to ’em all, up Sweet Water way, they can’t use the same oven with Ella Dawson.” “Shoo-fly,” retorted the cook contemptuously. None the less, she rummaged for dishes, and slowly arranged them on the table. The flatterer was soon plying an expert knife. “Well, Mr. Mile,” he continued, “I’ve come o’ business to your gran’father. Consarns you, but no hurry. Cares can wait: Old Appetite, not so.--Now, why don’t a handy girl like that ever git merried?” “Much!” cried Ella angrily. She turned her back, and stared out at window, muttering, “Waste time ketchin’ some glutteron to cook for?” No one but a Bissant might have known what memory her scorn disguised, or in what gale Ben Constantine went overboard, thirty years ago. A feeble step came down the passage. The inner door opened. “Mornin’, Mr. Bissant.” Their visitor finished his coffee at a gulp and sprang up, nodding and ducking. “Health fust rate, I hope, sir?” “Fair, thank you,” replied the Admiral’s brother. “And yours, Mr. Belden?” His white head inclined gravely. Perhaps it was the upward-slanting glow in the sunny kitchen, perhaps some subtler effect of the strange, untimely cold; but of late, and now especially, he seemed to Miles far more old and frail. Age had stolen upon him in his chamber, as winter had surprised the yellow autumn fields. “Mine’s tol’able, thank ye,” replied the teamster. “Now fust crack, sir, here’s the whole point, and no offense. I’m bound up to High Woods, after cord-wood; also to mark handy spots, p’r’aps, for gittin’ out knees. Sleddin’’s fine: might be Feb’uary. Now to Kilmarnock is neither youngsters ner able bodies. No one free to go but my son, Lazy-Hab, who ain’t no great, all knows, beside he’s a hard-o’-hearin’ man. I got kind o’ desprit. ‘What, miss all that splendid goin’?’ thinks I. ‘Won’t neither. There’s young Mr. Mile, the bigness of a man a’ready.’ Now all I ask is, will he ride along o’ me, week or ten days, and do a man’s work for a man’s wages?” “I don’t know,” replied old Mr. Bissant in slow surprise. “It’s pretty cold, Habakkuk. The mercury showed--” “My feelin’s is better’n any old jibometer!” cried the other recklessly. “’Scuse my common way, sir, but it’ll do the young man good.” “True for once!” cried Ella, with sudden animation. “Let him go! If anybody ever needed a change! He’s been mopin’ and sykin’ about this house like a sweetheart in a picture book!” Miles felt his grandfather’s eyes fasten on him so odd a scrutiny that he gladly heard the interruption of Tony’s laugh. “Yes, let him go skylark,” called the sailor, lounging in from the passage. “The lad’s been cooped up till he’s stale. I’ll keep all ship-shape for him here. This last fortnight he’s hardly spoken to us--sour even on his old mate!”