‘Nay,’ agreed Isaac, ‘I never were a-called that way. I never could do wi’ women-folk about. I’ve seed too much of ’em when I were a young ’un. Lord, what a cat-and-dog life my poor father and mother did lead, to be sure! He liked a drop o’ drink, my father did; and when he’d had a glass too much I’ve seen my mother pull the hair out of his head by handfuls—ah, that I have. But father, he’d never complain. Soon as she ’d leave go of him he’d stoop down and pick up all the hair as she ’d a-pulled out of his head. He’d put it in a box—ah, many’s the time he’ve a-showed it to me arter him and her had had a fallin’ out, and he’d say to me, “Never you go fur to get married, my boy,” and I’d say, “Nay, father,” and I’ve a-kept my word.’ ‘Your poor sister kep’ house for you a good bit, though, did n’t she, after she lost her husband? And you were uncommon fond o’ the boy.’ ‘Yes, it be different wi’ a sister—particularly one as knows she have n’t got no right to be there. She were a very quiet body, poor Eliza were. I were quite sorry when she and the little chap shifted to Dorchester; but she thought she’d do better in business.’ ‘Well, but you were a good friend to she,’ remarked Elias, ‘both to she and her boy. Ye paid his passage to ’Merica arter she died, poor thing, did n’t ye?’ ‘Ah, I did pay his passage to ’Merica, and I did gi’ him a bit o’ money in hand to start wi’, out there. Well, but you ha’n’t told me the name o’ your new missus.’ ‘Rosalie Goldring is her name,’ returned Elias, lowering his voice confidentially. ‘Rosalie Goldring—nice name, bain’t it? Soon’s I heard her name I took it for a kind o’ token.’ ‘Ah! there be a good many Goldrings Dorchester side,’ remarked Isaac. ‘Was that what took you off so far away? You’ve been a-coortin’ and never dropped a hint o’ it.’ ‘Nay now, I never so much as set eyes on her till this very day. But being so bad off for a wife, and so put about wi’ all the waste as is a-goin’ on at my place, I thought I’d make sure o’ her, so I axed her. And she were glad enough to take me—she’s Giles Stelling’s granddaughter, d’ ye see, and she has to turn out now.’ ‘Old Stelling’s granddaughter,’ repeated Isaac with emphasis. ‘Granddaughter? He must ha’ been a terrible old man.’ ‘I do ’low he were—old enough,’ replied Elias hastily. ‘Well, now I’ve a-told ye the news, Isaac, I think I might as well take myself home again. My head be all in a whirl wi’ so much travellin’ and one thing and another. Good-night to ye, Isaac; ye must be sure an’ come over to see the new turnip-hoer to-morrow.’ A little more than three weeks later Fiander brought home his bride, and Isaac Sharpe cleaned himself, and strolled up in the evening to congratulate the couple. Elias admitted him, his face wreathed with smiles, and his whole person smartened up and rejuvenated. ‘Come in, Isaac, come in. The wife’s gone upstairs to get ready for supper, but she’ll be down in a minute.’