“I know he is asked to Goole for the cock shooting, and to the Kanes’ for hunting,” continued Maria confidentially, “for Jane Bolland noticed the postmarks and crests. It is a grand thing for a young man to come into this part of the world, where bachelors are scarce and girls are in dozens. Mrs. Malone showed me a whole row of notes, waiting for him on the chimneypiece, and really, the first Sunday he was in church, the way the girls flocked round him afterwards--by the way of speaking to his mother--was shameless! The Rodes, the Lynches, and the Wildes, that scarcely look at her from year’s end to year’s end.” “Why does he not go off hunting?” enquired Miss Dopping. “He must be a queer sort of a molly-coddle of a young man, if _that_ does not tempt him.” “He has no horse yet; the Major has been trying to sell him every old screw in the country, but he is too sharp for him and so----” “And so he goes over and idles, and risks himself at Noone; I see. Well, he is a pleasant young fellow, and was very civil, even to an old hag like me, so I’ll do my best for him. I will get the Moores to ask him over, and I’ll speak a word to the Major! And now, Maria, that will do for to-day. I am not very strong, and a little of _you_ goes a long way. There is your cloak, there is your umbrella; good-bye, and don’t bang the front-door.” As soon as the same door had been shut, with a violence that shook the plaster from the ceiling (for Maria was not pleased), Miss Dopping hurried over to the seat she always occupied in the window, drew her shawl over her head, and peered into the street. She frequently sat in this nook, watching passers-by, and knocked loudly on the pane at any she specially wished to see, usually--almost always--_men_. She vastly preferred their society to that of her own sex, and openly gloried in the fact. Major Malone, Dr. Doran, Sir Forbes Gould, Lord Mudrath, the Parish Priest, were indiscriminately summoned in from time to time, to have a talk and a glass of good wine--and came right willingly. She was an aggressively hospitable old lady. No one was permitted to leave her house without partaking of some refreshment, whether it was port wine and a biscuit, a cup of tea and seed cake, or even a glass of milk! To refuse was to offend her seriously. The very drivers who brought her visitors on hack cars were sure of a bottle of porter. Eating and drinking was in her opinion, an outward and visible token of inward goodwill. Now she sits in the window, watching for the Major, and here he comes at last, rolling out of the post office. She rapped at him sharply with her knuckles, and soon afterwards his red face, and ample waistcoat, presented themselves in the doorway. “Sit down, Major,” said his hostess effusively, “sit down; come over near the fire and tell me all the news. You are a great stranger these times, a great stranger.” “Upon my word, Miss Sally,” rubbing his hands briskly, “I haven’t a word of news, good or bad. Have you?”