We had invited some village friends to come in and eat strawberries and cream with us that afternoon; and the question arose, what should be done with the old gentleman?  Harry, who is a lad of a rather lively fancy, coming in while we were taking advantage of his great uncle’s deafness to discuss the subject in his presence, proposed a pleasant expedient.  “Trot him out into the cornfield, introduce him to the scarecrow, and let him talk to that,” says he, grinning up into the visitor’s face, who grinned down at him, no doubt thinking what a wonderfully charming boy he was!  If he were as blind as he is deaf, he might have been disposed of very comfortably in some such ingenious way;—­the scarecrow, or any other lay figure, might have served to engage him in one of his immortal monologues.  As it was, the suggestion bore fruit later, as you will see.

While we were consulting—­keeping up our scattering fire of small-arms under the old talker’s heavy guns—­our parish minister called,—­old Doctor Wortleby, for whom we have a great liking and respect.  Of course we had to introduce him to Uncle Popworth,—­for they met face to face; and of course Uncle Popworth fastened at once upon the brother clergyman.  Being my guest, Wortleby could do no less than listen to Popworth, who is my uncle.  He listened with interest and sympathy for the first half-hour; and then continued listening for another half-hour, after his interest and sympathy were exhausted.  Then, attempting to go, he got his hat, and sat with it in his hand half an hour longer.  Then he stood half an hour on his poor old gouty feet, desperately edging toward the door.

“Ah, certainly,” says he, with a weary smile, repeatedly endeavoring to break the spell that bound him.  “I shall be most happy to hear the conclusion of your remarks at some future time” (even ministers can lie out of politeness); “but just now—­”

“One word more, and I am done,” cries my Uncle Popworth, for the fiftieth time; and Wortleby, in despair, sat down again.

Then our friends arrived.

Dolly and I, who had all the while been benevolently wishing Wortleby would go, and trying to help him off, now selfishly hoped he would remain and share our entertainment—­and our Uncle Popworth.

“I ought to have gone two hours ago,” he said, with a plaintive smile, in reply to our invitation; “but, really, I am feeling the need of a cup of tea” (and no wonder!) “and I think I will stay.”

We cruelly wished that he might continue to engage my uncle in conversation; but that would have been too much to hope from the sublime endurance of a martyr,—­if ever there was one more patient than he.  Seeing the Lintons and the Greggs arrive, he craftily awaited his opportunity, and slipped off, to give them a turn on the gridiron.  First Linton was secured; and you should have seen him roll his mute, appealing orbs, as he settled helplessly down under the infliction.  Suddenly he made a dash.  “I am ignorant of these matters,” said he; “but Gregg understands them;—­Gregg will talk with you.”  But Gregg took refuge behind the ladies.  The ladies receiving a hint from poor distressed Dolly, scattered.  But no artifice availed against the dreadful man.  Piazza, parlor, garden,—­he ranged everywhere, and was sure to seize a victim.