wrinkled face, who curtsied, and, speaking in a meek voice, asked, or
seemed to ask, his pleasure.

"Your pardon, mistress," said Robbie, "but mayhap you've seen a little
man with gray hair and a long beard going by?"

"Do you say a laal man?" asked the old woman.

"Ey, wrinkled and wizzent a bit?" said Robbie.

"Yes," said the woman.

Robbie was uncertain as to what the affirmation implied. Taking it to
be a sort of request for a more definite description, he continued,--

"A blate and fearsome sort of a fellow, you know."

"Yes," repeated the woman, and then there was a pause.

Robbie, getting impatient of the delay, was turning on his heel with
scant civility, when the old woman said, "Are you seeking him for
aught that is good?"

"Why, ey, mother," said Robbie, regaining his former position and his
accustomed geniality in an instant. "Do you know his name?" she asked.

"Sim--that's to say Sim Stagg. Don't you fear me, mother; I'm a friend
to Sim, take my word."

"You're a good-like sort of a lad, I think," said the old woman; "Sim