“Now, wud ye listen to thot, an’ she knowin’ that divil a clath hev we in the wurruld, an’ glad enough to hev vittles on the table, let alone a clath,” said Granny, oblivious of the wreck she was making of Biddy’s pride.

“Will ye hay tay or coffee, Yahn?” said Biddy.

“Tea,” was Yan’s choice.

“Faix, an’ Oi’m glad ye said tay, fur Oi ain’ seen a pick o’ coffee sense Christmas, an’ the tay Oi kin git in the woods, but thayer is somethin’ Oi kin set afore ye that don’t grow in the woods,” and the old woman hobbled to a corner shelf, lifted down an old cigar box and from among matches, tobacco, feathers, tacks, pins, thread and dust she picked six lumps of cube sugar, formerly white.

“Thayer, shure, an’ Oi wuz kapin’ this fur whin his riv’rence comes; wanst a year he’s here, God bless him! but that’s fower wakes ahid, an’ dear knows fwhat may happen afore thin.  Here, an’ a hearty welcome,” said she, dropping three of the lumps in Yan’s tea.  “We’ll kape the rest fur yer second cup.  Hev some crame?” and she pushed over a sticky-handled shaving-mug full of excellent cream.  “Biddy, give Yahn some bread.”

The loaf, evidently the only one, was cut up and two or three slices forced into Yan’s plate.

“Mebbe the butther is a little hoigh,” exclaimed the hostess, noting that Yan was sparing of it.  “Howld on.”  She went again to the corner shelf and got down an old glass jar with scalloped edge and a flat tin cover.  It evidently contained jam.  She lifted the cover and exclaimed: 

“Well, Oi niver!” Then going to the door she fished out with her fingers a dead mouse and threw it out, remarking placidly, “Oi’ve wondered whayer the little divil wuz.  Oi ain’t sane him this two wakes, an’ me a-thinkin’ it wuz Tom ate him.  May Oi be furgiven the onjustice av it.  Consarn them flies!  That cover niver did fit.”  And again her finger was employed, this time to scrape off an incrustation of unhappy flies that had died, like Clarence, in their favourite beverage.

“Thayer, Yan, now ate hearty, all av it, an’ welcome.  It does me good to see ye ate—­thayer’s lots more whayer that come from,” though it was obvious that she had put her all upon the table.

Poor Yan was in trouble.  He felt instinctively that the good old soul was wrecking her week’s resources in this lavish hospitality, but he also felt that she would be deeply hurt if he did not appear to enjoy everything.  The one possibly clean thing was the bread.  He devoted himself to that; it was of poorest quality; one or two hairs looping in his teeth had been discouraging, but when he bit at a piece of linen rag with a button on it he was fairly upset.  He managed to hide the rag, but could not conceal his sudden loss of appetite.

“Hev some more av this an’ this,” and in spite of himself his plate was piled up with things for him to eat, including a lot of beautifully boiled potatoes, but unfortunately the hostess carried them from the pot on the stove in a corner of her ancient and somber apron, and served him with her skinny paw.