“He ain’t likely to make strange nises o’ nights, is he, Sairey?” exclaimed the old woman, earnestly regarding her daughter with a pair of eyes from which all expression and light seemed literally washed out, leaving nothing but two circles of weak, dim blue. “I don’t think so. He seems to me quiet enough. He’s fond o’ staring into the road. One might think he’s trying to find out where he is. I niver see a stranger face. He don’t look English-like, and yet he talks uncommon well. I can tell by his boots--which is square as square at the toes, and his clothes, which have an odd twist somehows--that he’s not from these parts. Maybe, he’s from Ireland.” “I hope not, Sairey,” ejaculated the old woman, bending forward with the profoundly confidential air of old age. “I was once fellow-sarvint with a Ayrish futman as was allus talkin’ of burnin’ down houses, an’ his speech ran on so it were niver to be trusted, for niver was such lies as he used to tell. You’d best gi’ him notice, Sairey. You can say I gi’ yer more trouble nor you can well get through, and recommend Burton’s lodgin’s to him. Burton’s a strong man, and kapes dogs.” “Tut! I’m not afeard!” said Mrs. Parrot, tossing up her hands and giving her cap a pull. “There’s no more harm in the man than there is in you, for didn’t I tell yer how he gave the girl a shillin’ and spoke that soft to it, it made me feel as if I could ha’ cried. Give him notice, and him not here a day yit! Fourteen shillin’ is fourteen shillin’ in these scarce times, to say nothin’ of his being as well-spoken a man as iver you listened to in your life; an’ as for his face, it is but as God made it, an’ beauty is but skin deep, as t’ parson says, an’ I’m for lettin’ well alone.” “If he ain’t Ayrish,” said the old woman, stroking the back of her lean hand, “he may be very well. But sitch talk of invasions from that nashun as I used to hear when I was a gal, an’ the drink an’ shootin’ as goes on there, is enough to wet your hair with perspiration ...” “_I_ didn’t say he was Irish. _I_ don’t know what he is. He was askin’ about Mrs. Conway, though she’s unbeknown to him, as any one might tell who heerd him questionin’. He wants Miss Nelly to bear him company at tea, and I don’t see why the child can’t come, if the mother ’ull let it. I won’t take it upon myself to bring the child in. I’ll speak to the mother when I see her. I like Mrs. Conway. She’s a nice-spoken lady, but seems to know a deal of grief, poor thing. It ’ud be a mussy if that husband of hers ’ud take it into his head to pull out all his own teeth. The cook at Mrs. Short’s was tellin’ me he’s grown that wicious there’s no wishin’ him a civil good mornin’. An’ drink! Didn’t I see him pass here yesterday evenin’, staggerin’ on his legs like a doll which a child tries to teach walkin’ to?”