“I’m blithe to see ye, sir,” said he.  “Sit ye down, sir.”

And, turning, he pointed to his own easy-chair; and I then saw his profile.  It was delicate as that of Dante, which in form it marvellously resembled.  But all the sternness which Dante’s evil times had generated in his prophetic face was in this old man’s replaced by a sweetness of hope that was lovely to behold.

“No, Mr Weir,” I said, “I cannot take your chair.  The Bible tells us to rise up before the aged, not to turn them out of their seats.”

“It would do me good to see you sitting in my cheer, sir.  The pains that my son Tom there takes to keep it up as long as the old man may want it!  It’s a good thing I bred him to the joiner’s trade, sir.  Sit ye down, sir.  The cheer’ll hold ye, though I warrant it won’t last that long after I be gone home.  Sit ye down, sir.”

Thus entreated, I hesitated no longer, but took the old man’s seat.  His son brought another chair for him, and he sat down opposite the fire and close to me.  Thomas then went back to his work, leaving us alone.

“Ye’ve had some speech wi’ my son Tom,” said the old man, the moment he was gone, leaning a little towards me.  “It’s main kind o’ you, sir, to take up kindly wi’ poor folks like us.”

“You don’t say it’s kind of a person to do what he likes best,” I answered.  “Besides, it’s my duty to know all my people.”

“Oh yes, sir, I know that.  But there’s a thousand ways ov doin’ the same thing.  I ha’ seen folks, parsons and others, ’at made a great show ov bein’ friendly to the poor, ye know, sir; and all the time you could see, or if you couldn’t see you could tell without seein’, that they didn’t much regard them in their hearts; but it was a sort of accomplishment to be able to talk to the poor, like, after their own fashion.  But the minute an ould man sees you, sir, he believes that you mean it, sir, whatever it is.  For an ould man somehow comes to know things like a child.  They call it a second childhood, don’t they, sir?  And there are some things worth growin’ a child again to get a hould ov again.”

“I only hope what you say may be true—­about me, I mean.”

“Take my word for it, sir.  You have no idea how that boy of mine, Tom there, did hate all the clergy till you come.  Not that he’s anyway favourable to them yet, only he’ll say nothin’ again’ you, sir.  He’s got an unfortunate gift o’ seein’ all the faults first, sir; and when a man is that way given, the faults always hides the other side, so that there’s nothing but faults to be seen.”

“But I find Thomas quite open to reason.”

“That’s because you understand him, sir, and know how to give him head.  He tould me of the talk you had with him.  You don’t bait him.  You don’t say, ‘You must come along wi’ me,’ but you turns and goes along wi’ him.  He’s not a bad fellow at all, is Tom; but he will have the reason for everythink.  Now I never did want the reason for everything.  I was content to be tould a many things.  But Tom, you see, he was born with a sore bit in him somewheres, I don’t rightly know wheres; and I don’t think he rightly knows what’s the matter with him himself.”