“‘Please ye, ma’am,’ says Jenny (I wouldn’t have her callin’ I _Cousin Maria_, d’ye see, a little maid same as her out of a institootion! She did offer to call I so once or twice, but I soon checked her). ‘Please ye, ma’am,’ she says, ‘this ’ere poor chap was so terr’ble cold--froze up he was--he’d a-been walkin’ ten mile an’ more in the snow; and when he axed I to let en in to warm hisself a bit, I didn’t think you’d object.’ “‘You didn’t think I’d object,’ says I. ‘You little good-for-nothin’ hussy! We might ha’ been robbed an’ murdered for all you care.’ “The man turned round laughin’ as impident as ye like. He was a Irishman, Mrs. Cross--I could tell it the very minute I clapped eyes on his face, afore he so much as opened his mouth, and when he did begin to speak, Lard ha’ mercy me! I never did hear sick languidge.” “Swearin’ an’ that?” questioned Mrs. Cross, with her head on one side. “Oh no, nothin’ o’ that sort, but sick a queer, ignorant fayshion o’ talkin’. ‘The top o’ the mornin’ to ye, ma’am,’ says he. ‘Is it murther ye’re talkin’ of? Sure, how could I be afther murtherin’ ye when ye weren’t here?’ he says. ‘Don’t ye be afeerd,’ he went on--I can’t really remember his queer talk, but he said he had come over harvestin’ an’ then got laid up wi’ a fever, an’ was a long time in hospital, and now, he said, he was on his way to see a friend who had been in the hospital at the same time, and after that he had the promise of work. “A reg’lar cock-and-bull story; I didn’t believe a word on’t. I did tell en so. “‘Why be ye a-trapsin’ the roads then,’ says I, ‘if you’ve a-been invited to stay with a friend?’ “‘I missed my road,’ says he, ‘I took the wrong turn; I shan’t get there till night now,’ he says. ‘I’m a bit weak still with being sick so long, and it’ll take me all my time to get there.’ “‘You’d best be startin’ then,’ says I, p’intin’ to the door. Then if ye’ll believe it that little impident maid ups and interferes. “‘Oh, ma’am,’ she says, ‘let him bide and eat a bit o’ dinner wi’ us. I’m sure he’s a respectable man, and it’s Sunday and all. And there’s more dinner nor we can eat.’ “Well, I could ha’ shook her--‘I’ll thank ye, Jenny, to mind your own business,’ I says, ‘a little chit like you, what’s kept for charity. Bain’t it enough,’ I says, ‘to be beholden to I for every bit you do put into your own mouth wi’out wantin’ to waste the food what don’t belong to ye on good-for-nothin’ tramps and idlers?’ I says. Then the man gets up. “‘That’ll do, ma’am,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t touch bite or sup of yours,’ he says, ‘for fear it ’ud stick in my throat. Good-bye my dear,’ he says to Jenny, ‘an’ blessin’s on your pretty face and your kind heart. Maybe better times ’ull be comin’ for you as well as for me,’ he says.” “Ah,” put in Mrs. Cross excitedly, “he had summat in his mind about her, you mid be sure.” Mrs. Chaffey threw out a warning hand once more and pursued her narrative.