‘I wish _I_ never heard of them,’ gasped the old man: ‘at my time of life—with the rheumatics—drawing water-from that thing!’ Not to be deluded into calling it a Pump, the old man gave it another virulent look, took up his pitcher, and carried it into a corner dwelling-house, shutting the door after him. Looking around and seeing that each little house was a house of two little rooms; and seeing that the little oblong court-yard in front was like a graveyard for the inhabitants, saving that no word was engraven on its flat dry stones; and seeing that the currents of life and noise ran to and fro outside, having no more to do with the place than if it were a sort of low-water mark on a lively beach; I say, seeing this and nothing else, I was going out at the gate when one of the doors opened. ‘Was you looking for anything, sir?’ asked a tidy, well-favoured woman. Really, no; I couldn’t say I was. ‘Not wanting any one, sir?’ ‘No—at least I—pray what is the name of the elderly gentleman who lives in the corner there?’ The tidy woman stepped out to be sure of the door I indicated, and she and the pump and I stood all three in a row with our backs to the thoroughfare. ‘Oh! _His_ name is Mr. Battens,’ said the tidy woman, dropping her voice. ‘I have just been talking with him.’ ‘Indeed?’ said the tidy woman. ‘Ho! I wonder Mr. Battens talked!’ ‘Is he usually so silent?’ ‘Well, Mr. Battens is the oldest here—that is to say, the oldest of the old gentlemen—in point of residence.’ She had a way of passing her hands over and under one another as she spoke, that was not only tidy but propitiatory; so I asked her if I might look at her little sitting-room? She willingly replied Yes, and we went into it together: she leaving the door open, with an eye as I understood to the social proprieties. The door opening at once into the room without any intervening entry, even scandal must have been silenced by the precaution. It was a gloomy little chamber, but clean, and with a mug of wallflower in the window. On the chimney-piece were two peacock’s feathers, a carved ship, a few shells, and a black profile with one eyelash; whether this portrait purported to be male or female passed my comprehension, until my hostess informed me that it was her only son, and ‘quite a speaking one.’ ‘He is alive, I hope?’ ‘No, sir,’ said the widow, ‘he were cast away in China.’ This was said with a modest sense of its reflecting a certain geographical distinction on his mother. ‘If the old gentlemen here are not given to talking,’ said I, ‘I hope the old ladies are?—not that you are one.’ She shook her head. ‘You see they get so cross.’ ‘How is that?’