“We will talk for a little time about my dear mistress,” said Rachel, “and then I will ask you to take me away.” She leaned forward in her chair, looking up at her companion and laying both hands upon his arm. “I cannot stay here,” she went on, in a whisper. “There are reasons. There is a person here I have not seen for more than a quarter of a century. You have observed that I am sometimes a little flighty.” She withdrew one of her hands and tapped her forehead. “My dear Rachel!” said Ferdinand, in smiling protestation. “Yes, yes,” she insisted, in a mincing whisper, as if she were laying claim to a distinction. “A little flighty. You do no credit to your own penetration, dear Mr. Ferdinand, if you deny it. That person is the cause. I suffered a great wrong at that person's hands. Let us say no more. Tell me about my dear mistress.” The varnish of unconscious affectation was transparent enough for Ferdinand to see through. The little old woman minced and bridled, and took quaintly sentimental airs, but she was moved a great deal, though in what way he could not guess. He sat and talked to her with a magnificent unbending, and she took his airs as no more than his right, and was well contented with them. “And now, Reuben,” cried Fuller, who, like everybody else, had noticed Miss Blythe's curious behavior to Ezra and was disturbed by it--“and now, Reuben, if thee hast got the old lady into fettle, let's have a taste of her quality. It's maney an' maney a year now since I had a chance of listenin' to her. Let's have a solo, lad. Gi'e us summat old and flavorsome. Let's have 'The Last Rose o' Summer.'”