She's...well, there she is."

A quavering, tiny voice, that came from Anthony, said: "How d' ye do--how
d' ye do;" sounding like the first effort of a fife. But Anthony did not
cast eye on Dahlia.

"Will you eat, man?--will you smoke a pipe?--won't you talk a word?--will
you go to bed?"

These several questions, coming between pauses, elicited nothing from the
staring oldman.

"Is there a matter wrong at the Bank?" the farmer called out, and Anthony
jumped in a heap.

"Eh?" persisted the farmer.

Rhoda interposed: "Uncle is tired; he is unwell. Tomorrow he will talk
to you."

"No, but is there anything wrong up there, though?" the farmer asked with
eager curiosity, and a fresh smile at the thought that those Banks and
city folk were mortal, and could upset, notwithstanding their crashing
wheels. "Brother Tony, you speak out; has anybody been and broke? Never
mind a blow, so long, o' course, as they haven't swallowed your money.
How is it? Why, I never saw such a sight as you. You come down from
London; you play hide and seek about your relation's house; and here,
when you do condescend to step in--eh? how is it? You ain't, I hope,
ruined, Tony, are ye?"