Something in his voice struck Sadie like a vague echo.  Perhaps it was only the queer dialect—­or some resemblance to his granddaughter’s voice.  She looked at him a little more closely as she said:—­

“To the Priory.”

“Whaat?”

She pointed with her parasol to the gray pile in the distance.  It was possible that this demented peasant didn’t even understand English.

“The hall.  Oh, ay!” Suddenly his brows knit ominously as he faced her.  “An’ wassist tha doin’ drest oop in this foinery?  Wheer gettist thee that goawn?  Thissen, or thy maester?  Nowt even a napron, fit for thy wark as maaid at serviss; an’ parson a gettin’ tha plaace at Hall!  So thou’lt be high and moity will tha! thou’lt not walk wi’ maaids, but traipse by thissen like a slut in the toon—­dang tha!”

Although it was plain to Sadie that the old man, in his wandering perception, had mistaken her for his granddaughter in service at the Priory, there was still enough rudeness in his speech for her to have resented it.  But, strange to say, there was a kind of authority in it that touched her with an uneasiness and repulsion that was stronger than any other feeling.  “I think you have mistaken me for some one else,” she said hurriedly, yet wondering why she had admitted it, and even irritated at the admission.  “I am a stranger here, a visitor at the Priory.  I called with Miss Amelyn at your cottage, and saw your other granddaughter; that’s how I knew your name.”

The old man’s face changed.  A sad, senile smile of hopeless bewilderment crept into his hard mouth; he plucked his limp cap from his head and let it hang submissively in his fingers, as if it were his sole apology.  Then he tried to straighten himself, and said, “Naw offins, miss, naw offins!  If tha knaws mea tha’ll knaw I’m grandfeyther to two galls as moight be tha owern age; tha’ll tell ’ee that old Debs at haaty years ’as warked and niver lost a day as man or boy; has niver coome oopen ’em for n’aporth.  An’ ‘e’ll keep out o’ warkus till he doy.  An’ ’ee’s put by enow to by wi’ his own feythers in Lanksheer, an’ not liggen aloane in parson’s choorchyard.”

It was part of her uneasiness that, scarcely understanding or, indeed, feeling any interest in these maundering details, she still seemed to have an odd comprehension of his character and some reminiscent knowledge of him, as if she were going through the repetition of some unpleasant dream.  Even his wrinkled face was becoming familiar to her.  Some weird attraction was holding her; she wanted to get away from it as much as she wanted to analyze it.  She glanced ostentatiously at the sky, prepared to open her parasol, and began to edge cautiously away.

“Then tha beant from these pearts?” he said suddenly.

“No, no,” she said quickly and emphatically,—­“no, I’m an American.”