“Is that you, Nina?” he said, without looking round.  “If it is, you may as well fry these eggs while I lay the cloth for supper.”

“No, you can finish them yourself,” replied Josephine.  “I’m dead tired.  I’d rather eat no supper than cook it.”

She flung herself into a long, low wicker-work chair, folded her hands and closed her eyes.  The old man turned the tail of one eye to glance at her.  Then he resumed his cooking, attending to it very carefully, removing each egg, as it was browned, to a hot and clean dish which stood in readiness.

“There,” he said, at last, “supper’s ready.  Here’s the vinegar, here’s the pepper, here’s the salt, here’s the pewter jug with the beer, here’s the bread and butter, and last, but not least, here’s your tea, Josephine.  You’re nowhere without your tea, are you, child?”

“Pour it out for me,” said Josephine.  “Put an egg on a plate and give it to me.  I’ll be better when I’ve eaten.  I can’t talk until I have eaten.  I was taken this way last night—­I’ll be better presently.”

The old man gave her a long, curious glance; then he fetched a tray, piled it with refreshments, and brought it to her side.  She ate and drank ravenously.  The food acted on her like magic; she sat upright—­her eyes sparkled, her pallor left her, and the slight shade of petulance and ill-humor which had characterized her when she entered the room gave place to a sunshiny and radiant smile.

“Well, Daddy,” she said, getting up, going to the old man and giving him a kiss.  “So you have come back at last.  I was pretty sick of being a whole fortnight by myself, with no one but that interesting Mrs. Timms for company.  You never wrote to me, and however careful I was, that five shillings wouldn’t go far.  What did you do in London?  And why didn’t you write?”

“One question at a time, Nina.  Don’t strangle me, child.  Sit down quietly, and I’ll tell you my news.  I’m a good grandfather to you, Josephine.  I’m a very good and faithful grandfather to you.”

“So you tell me every day of my life.  I’ll retort back now—­I’m a good grandchild to you—­the best in the world.”

“Bless me, what have you ever done, chit, but eat my bread and drink my water?  However, I have news at last.  Now, how eager you look!  You would like to be a fine lady and forget your old granddad.”

“I’d like to be a fine lady, certainly,” responded Josephine.

She said nothing further, but sitting still, with her small hands crossed in her lap, she absolutely devoured the old man’s face with her eyes.

He was accustomed to her gaze, which glittered and shone, and never wavered, and was by some people thought uncanny.  He finished his supper slowly and methodically, and until he had eaten the last mouthful, and drained off the last drop of beer in the pewter mug, he didn’t speak.

Then with a sharp glance at the girl he said, suddenly: