Sennacherib's house stood back from the highway a hundred yards or so beyond Ezra's. It was fenced all round by an ill-trimmed hedge of hawthorn, and the only break in the hedge was made by the un-painted wooden gate which led by a brick-paved walk to the three brick steps before the door. The door stood open when Rachel reached it, and the knocker being set high up and out of reach, she tapped upon the wood-work with the handle of her sunshade. This summons eliciting no response, she repeated it; but by-and-by the opening of a door within the house let out upon her the sound of Sennacherib's voice, hitherto audible only as an undefined and surly buzz. “Who's master i' this house?” Sennacherib was asking--“thee or me?” “If brag and swagger could ha' made a man the master,” said a feminine voice, in tones of feeble resignation, “theer's no doubt it's you, Sennacherib.” “Brag and swagger?” said Sennacherib. “Lord o' mercy!” replied the feminine voice, “what do you want to shout a body deaf for? Brag and swagger was what I said, Sennacherib. But if you think as a mother's heart is agoing to be overcome by that sort o' talk, and as I shall turn my back upon my very own born child, you've fell into the biggest error of your lifetime.” Rachel rapped again somewhat louder than before. “Canst choose betwixt that young rip and me,” replied Sennacherib. “That's right; let the parish know your hard-heartedness! Theer's somebody knockin' at the door. Go and tell 'em what you've made up your wicked mind to--do!” Sennacherib thrust his head into the hall and stared frowningly at the visitor through his spectacles. “Good-morning, sir,” said Rachel, with frigid politeness. “I called for the purpose of paying my respects to Mrs. Eld. If the moment is inauspicious I will call again.” At the sound of her voice Mrs. Sennacherib appeared--a large woman of matronly figure but dejected aspect. She had been comely, but thirty years of protest and resignation had lifted the inner ends of her eyebrows and depressed the corners of her mouth until, even in her most cheerful moments, she had a look of meek submission to unmeasured wrongs. “Dear me!” said Mrs. Sennacherib, sailing round her husband and down the hall, “it's Miss Blythe! Come in, my dear, and tek off your cloak and bonnet. I'm glad to see you. I wondered if you was never comin' to see me. And how be you?” She bent over the little figure of her guest and buried it in an embrace like that of a feather-bed. “It's beautiful weather for the time o' year,” she continued, almost tearfully, “and I have been a-thinking of makin' a call upon you; but I'm short of breath, and Eld is such a creetur he'd rather see a body stop in the house as if it was a prison, than harness the pony and drive me half a mile, to save his life.” “Short o' breath!” said Sennacherib. “Thee talkest like one as is short o' breath! Her talks enough,” he added, addressing the visitor, “to break the wind of a Derby race-hoss.”