“No, sir, you don’t know my face.  I only came last night,” she said.

“God bless my soul!  God bless my soul!  Fine young woman! fine young woman! glad to see you,—­glad, glad.  Girls good for nothing, nothing, nothing at all, nowadays,” jerked on the queer old gentleman, still shifting rapidly from one foot to the other, and beating time continuously with his cane, but looking into Mercy’s face with so kindly a smile that she felt her heart warm with affection towards him.

“Your father come with you?  Come to stay?  I’d like to know ye, child.  Like your face,—­good face, good face, very good face,” continued the inexplicable old man.  “Don’t like many people.  People are wolves, wolves, wolves.  ’D like to know you, child.  Good face, good face.”

“Can he be crazy?” thought Mercy.  But the smile and the honest twinkle of the clear blue eye were enough to counterbalance the incoherent talk:  the old man was not crazy, only eccentric to a rare degree.  Mercy felt instinctively that she had found a friend, and one whom she could trust and lean on.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.  “I’m very glad you like my face.  I like yours, too,—­you look so merry.  I think I and my mother will be very glad to know you.  We have come to live here in half of Mr. Stephen White’s house.”

“Merry, merry?  Nobody calls me merry.  That’s a mistake, child,—­mistake, mistake.  Mistake about the house, too,—­mistake.  Stephen White hasn’t any house,—­no, no, hasn’t any house.  My name’s Wheeler, Wheeler.  Good enough name.  ‘Old Man Wheeler’ some think’s better.  I hear ’em:  my cane don’t make so much noise but I hear ’em.  Ha! ha! wolves, wolves, wolves!  People are all wolves, all alike, all alike.  Got any money, child?” With this last question, the whole expression of his face changed; the very features seemed to shrink; his eyes grew dark and gleaming as they fastened on Mercy’s face.

Even this did not rouse Mercy’s distrust.  There was something inexplicable in the affectionate confidence she felt in this strange, old man.

“Only a little, sir,” she said.  “We are not rich; we have only a little.”

“A little’s a good deal, good deal, good deal.  Take care of it, child.  People’ll git it away from you.  They’re nothing but wolves, wolves, wolves;” and, saying these words, the old man set off at a rapid pace down the street, without bidding Mercy good-morning.

As she stood watching him with an expression of ever-increasing astonishment, he turned suddenly, planted his stick in the ground, and called,—­

“God bless my soul!  God bless my soul!  Bad habit, bad habit.  Never do say good-morning,—­bad habit.  Too old to change, too old to change.  Bad habit, bad habit.”  And with a nod to Mercy, but still not saying good-morning, he walked away.

Mercy ran into the house, breathless with amusement and wonder, and gave her mother a most graphic account of this strange interview.