me, and I heard a voice:--

"I beg yer pardon, sir; but be you the new vicar?"

I turned instantly and answered, "I am. Do you want me?"

"I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, if ye'll not take it
amiss."

Before me stood a tall old man with his hat in his hand, clothed as
I have said, in a white smock-frock. He smoothed his short gray hair
with his curved palm down over his forehead as he stood. His face
was of a red brown, from much exposure to the weather. There was a
certain look of roughness, without hardness, in it, which spoke of
endurance rather than resistance, although he could evidently set
his face as a flint. His features were large and a little coarse,
but the smile that parted his lips when he spoke, shone in his gray
eyes as well, and lighted up a countenance in which a man might
trust.

"I wanted to see yer face, sir, if you'll not take it amiss."

"Certainly not," I answered, pleased with the man's address, as he
stood square before me, looking as modest as fearless. "The sight of
a man's face is what everybody has a right to; but, for all that, I
should like to know why you want to see my face."

"Why, sir, you be the new vicar. You kindly told me so when I axed
you."