“Do?” said the younger Sennacherib, “why, set me down afore the kitchen fire, an' mek me happetizin' afore he sets to work to eat me. How be you, mum?” The younger Sennacherib's face was gay and impudent, with that peculiar mingling of gayety and impudence which seems inseparable from freckles. His face was mottled with freckles, and the backs of his hands were of a dark yellowish brown with them. “This is Miss Rachel Blythe,” said his mother, “as was at school with me when I was a gell. This is my poor persecuted child, Miss Blythe.” “Me, mum!” said the persecuted child, standing with his feet wide apart, and bending first one knee and then the other, and then bending both together. “The governor's out, is he?” “He's only just gone,” returned his mother. “But, Snac, you'll only anger him, comin' in i' this way. You'd better wait a bit and let things blow over.” “Well,” said Snac, “I shouldn't ha' come for any-thin' but business. But I've got a chance o' doin' a bit o' trade with him. He's had his mind set on Bunch's pony this two 'ear, an' Bunch an' him bein' at daggers drawn theer was niver a chance to buy it. But me an' him bein' split, old Bunch sells me the pony, and I called thinkin' he might like to have it.” He laughed with great glee, and flicked one tightly clad leg with the whip he carried. “Wait a bit, Snac,” his mother besought him. “Let it blow over a bit afore approachin' him.” “Wait for the Beacon Hill to blow over!” said Snac, in answer. “I've no more expectations as the one 'll blow over than th' other. He'll do what he says he'll do. That's the pattern he's made in. I've got no more hopes of turnin' the governor than I should have if I was to go and tell a hox to be a donkey. It's again his natur' to change, and nothing short of a merracle 'll alter him. But as for livin' at enmity with him--wheer's the use o' that? He's all the feythers I've got, or am like to find at my time o' life, and I must just mek the best on him.” “A most commendable and Christian resolution,” said Rachel, decisively. “Very nice and kind of you to say so, mum,” Snac answered, setting his hat a little more on one side, and bending both knees with a rakish swagger. “You can tell the governor as I called, mother. The pony's as genuine a bit of blood as is to be found in Heydon Hay. The p'ints of a hoss and a dog is a thing as every child thinks he knows about, but bless your heart theer's nothing i' the world as is half so difficult t' understand, unless it is the ladies.” There was such an air of compliment about the saving clause that Rachel involuntarily inclined her head to it. “You'll tell the governor as I was here, mother,” Snac concluded, stooping down to kiss her. “You mustn't ask me to do that, Snac,” she answered. “I dar' not name your name.” “Rubbidge!” said Snac, genially. “Does he bite?” “It's for your sake, Snac,” said his mother, “not for mine. But I dar' not do it.”