"A cat may look at a king, if he's got his eyes about en," Old Zeb went
on, "let alone a legacy an' a green cart. 'Tain't that: 'tis the
maid."

"How's mother?" asked the young man, to shift the conversation.

"Hugly, my son. Hi! Rachel!" he shouted, turning his head towards the
cottage; and then went on, dropping his voice, "As between naybours,
I'm fain to say she don't shine this mornin'. Hi, mother! here's
Zebedee waitin' to pay his respects."

Mrs. Minards appeared on the cottage threshold, with a blue check duster
round her head--a tall, angular woman, of severe deportment.
Her husband's bulletin, it is fair to say, had reference rather to her
temper than to her personal attractions.

"Be the Frenchmen landed?" she inquired, sharply.

"Why, no; nor yet likely to."

"Then why be I called out i' the midst o' my clanin'? What came I out
for to see? Was it to pass the time o' day wi' an aged
shaken-by-the-wind kind o' loiterer they name Uncle Issy?"

Apparently it was not, for Uncle Issy by this time was twenty yards up
the road, and still fleeing, with his head bent and shoulders
extravagantly arched, as if under a smart shower.

"I thought I'd like to see you, mother," said Young Zeb.