“Yes, suh, I’s done ‘sumed my labohs in de Mastah’s vineya’d."’

“Have you had a good rest of it?”

“Well, I ain’ ezzackly been restin’,” said the aged man, scratching his head.  “I’s been pu’su’in’ othah ’ployments.”

“Oh, yes, but change of work is rest.  And how’s the rheumatism, now, any better?”

“Bettah?  Why, Mawse Gawge, I ain’ got a smidgeon of hit.  I’s jes’ limpin’ a leetle bit on ‘count o’ habit.”

“Well, it’s good if one can get well, even if his days are nearly spent.”

“Heish, Mas’ Gawge.  I ain’ t’inkin’ ’bout dyin’.”

“Aren’t you ready yet, in all these years?”

“I hope I’s ready, but I hope to be spaihed a good many yeahs yit.”

“To do good, I suppose?”

“Yes, suh; yes, suh.  Fac’ is, Mawse Gawge, I jes’ hop up to ax you some’p’n.”

“Well, here I am.”

“I want to ax you—­I want to ax you—­er—­er—­I want—­”

“Oh, speak out.  I haven’t time to be bothering here all day.”

“Well, you know, Mawse Gawge, some o’ us ain’ nigh ez ol’ ez dey looks.”

“That’s true.  A person, now, would take you for ninety, and to my positive knowledge, you’re not more than eighty-five.”

“Oh, Lawd.  Mastah, do heish.”

“I’m not flattering you, that’s the truth.”

“Well, now, Mawse Gawge, couldn’ you mek me’ look lak eighty-fo’, an’ be a little youngah?”

“Why, what do you want to be younger for?”

“You see, hit’s jes’ lak dis, Mawse Gawge.  I come up hyeah to ax you—­I want—­dat is—­me an’ Manette, we wants to git ma’ied.”

“Get married!” thundered Marston.  “What you, you old scarecrow, with one foot in the grave!”

“Heish, Mastah, ‘buse me kin’ o’ low.  Don’t th’ow yo’ words ‘roun’ so keerless.”

“This is what you wanted your Sundays off for, to go sparking around—­you an exhorter, too.”

“But I’s been missin’ my po’ ol’ wife so much hyeah lately.”

“You’ve been missing her, oh, yes, and so you want to get a woman young enough to be your granddaughter to fill her place.”

“Well, Mas’ Gawge, you know, ef I is ol’ an’ feeble, ez you say, I need a strong young han’ to he’p me down de hill, an’ ef Manette don’ min’ spa’in’ a few mont’s er yeahs—­”

“That’ll do, I’ll see what your mistress says.  Come back in an hour.”

A little touched, and a good deal amused, Marston went to see his wife.  He kept his face straight as he addressed her.  “Mrs. Marston, Manette’s hand has been proposed for.”

“George!”

“The Rev. Simon Marston has this moment come and solemnly laid his heart at my feet as proxy for Manette.”

“He shall not have her, he shall not have her!” exclaimed the lady, rising angrily.

“But remember, Mrs. Marston, it will keep her coming to meeting.”

“I do not care; he is an old hypocrite, that is what he is.”