“Gen’elman, lass? ’Oo? Wheer? D’ye mean—’im?” And the Aged One pointed at Sir John with wavering stick. “’E bean’t no gen’elman—look at ’is ’at! Gen’elman’s ’ats ’as goold lace onto ’em loike Sir ’Ector’s of a Sunday an’ Lord Sayle’s of a week-day. Look at ’is coat—so plain! An’ ’e aren’t got no sword neether! Gen’elman—’im? ’E be jest a respectable young man——” “You hear that, Rose?” cried Sir John, ecstatic. “You hear? There speaketh hoary Wisdom!” “’Oo’s ’oary—me?” demanded the Aged Soul, scowling. “Yourself, Mr. Dumbrell, and are therefore to be revered. Your hand, Sir Reverence, your hand, I beg!” “Whoy, oi dunno as oi loike the sound o’ that ’ere word——” “Mr. Dumbrell, you in your nescience saw ’neath the hollow shams and know me for what I truly am, a respectable young man. O most excellent Aged Soul, I thank thee for that word! Mr. Dumbrell, your hand, pray.” So, after some little hesitation, the sharp-tongued, little old man reached tremulous hand to Sir John’s warm clasp, and, looking up into Sir John’s smiling eyes, the Aged Soul smiled also; quoth he: “Young man, oi dunno as you bean’t better-lookin’ than what oi thought—leastways your eyes is worth any lass a-lookin’ at, oi rackon, an’—whoy, what be this ’ere?” And the old man stared down at his open palm. “By the pize—a guinea! Dannel it, young man, what be this fur? What do ’ee mean by it?” “Do not be angry, Mr. Dumbrell; pray accept it as a small mark of esteem and gratitude from one respectable man to another.” “Whoy, since you puts it that ways, young man, we woan’t arg’ about it, an’ oi dunno as oi bean’t almoighty glad of’t.... A guinea, Nan, a goolden guinea! ’Ere be baccy for oi an’ that ’ere cherry ribband for you, an’ sugar for oi, an’ a noo ’at for oi.... Young man, oi thank ’ee, an’ so du Nan.... Thank ’un, Nan; mak’ y’r reverence an’ show y’r manners, lass!” “Not forgetting your message, Ann,” prompted Sir John. “Yes, sir,” she answered, curtsying repeatedly, “though ’twere only Gammer Haryott as bid me say if I see you, sir, as she would like a word wi’ you, sir.” “What about my rum-an’-milk?” demanded the Aged Soul pettishly. “’Ere be oi a-vadin’ an’ famishin’ an’ perishin’ awaay, an’ you a-maggin’ an’ me a-waitin’ an’ nobody to ’tend to oi no’ow, nowhen nor nothin’! Come an’ gimme my rum-an’-milk or no ribbands, moind that! G’marnin’, young man, an’ doan’t ’ee go a-throwin’ your money away so woild-loike an’ rackless! Marnin’, my purty dear! You’ll foind oi settin’ a-top o’ stoile every marnin’ when it be sunny.” So saying, the Aged Soul bared his white head gallantly, nodded, and suffered his dutiful granddaughter to lead him away. My lady was silent awhile, watching them as they went, the girl so young and strong and motherly, the old man so bowed and feeble; and Sir John, regarding his companion keen-eyed, saw in her look an unwonted tenderness and, when at last she spoke, heard her voice strangely tender also.