“Good evening!” I said, pausing. “Good evening, Maister!” he cheerfully responded. “Wo’n’t ee step in?” I stepped in, and took a seat on the bench in the porch. “I’m glad to see you looking so hearty,” I began. “Last time, I remember, I chanced to pass just as Lady Muriel was coming away from the house. Does she still come to see you?” “Ees,” he answered slowly. “She has na forgotten me. I don’t lose her bonny face for many days together. Well I mind the very first time she come, after we’d met at Railway Station. She told me as she come to mak’ amends. Dear child! Only think o’ that! To mak’ amends!” “To make amends for what?” I enquired. “What could _she_ have done to need it?” “Well, it were loike this, you see? We were both on us a-waiting fur t’ train at t’ Junction. And I had setten mysen down upat t’ bench. And Station-Maister, _he_ comes and he orders me off—fur t’ mak’ room for her Ladyship, you understand?” “I remember it all,” I said. “I was there myself, that day.” “_Was_ you, now? Well, an’ she axes my pardon fur’t. Think o’ that, now! _My_ pardon! An owd ne’er-do-weel like me! Ah! She’s been here many a time, sin’ then. Why, she were in here only yestere’en, as it were, asittin’, as it might be, where you’re a-sitting now, an’ lookin’ sweeter and kinder nor an angel! An’ she says ‘You’ve not got your Minnie, now,’ she says, ‘to fettle for ye.’ Minnie was my grand-daughter, Sir, as lived wi’ me. She died, a matter of two months ago—or it may be three. She was a bonny lass—and a good lass, too. Eh, but life has been rare an’ lonely without her!” He covered his face in his hands: and I waited a minute or two, in silence, for him to recover himself. “So she says ‘Just tak’ _me_ fur your Minnie!’ she says. ‘Didna Minnie mak’ your tea fur you?’ says she. ‘Ay,’ says I. An she mak’s the tea. ‘An’ didna Minnie light your pipe?’ says she. ‘Ay,’ says I. An’ she lights the pipe for me. ‘An’ didna Minnie set out your tea in t’ porch?’ An’ I says ‘My dear,’ I says, ‘I’m thinking you’re Minnie hersen!’ An’ she cries a bit. We both on us cries a bit——.” Again I kept silence for a while. “An’ while I smokes my pipe, she sits an’ talks to me—as loving an’ as pleasant! I’ll be bound I thowt it were Minnie come again! An’ when she gets up to go, I says ‘Winnot ye shak’ hands wi’ me?’ says I. An’ she says ‘Na,’ she says: ‘a cannot _shak’ hands_ wi’ thee!’ she says.” “I’m sorry she said _that_,” I put in, thinking it was the only instance I had ever known of pride of rank showing itself in Lady Muriel. “Bless you, it werena _pride_!” said the old man, reading my thoughts. “She says ‘_Your_ Minnie never _shook hands_ wi’ you!’ she says. ‘An’ _I’m_ your Minnie now,’ she says. An’ she just puts her dear arms about my neck—and she kisses me on t’ cheek—an’ may God in Heaven bless her!” And here the poor old man broke down entirely, and could say no more. [Illustration: ‘A CANNOT SHAK’ HANDS WI’ THEE!’]