one, and be sure to make him wipe his feet before he comes in.
Does he appear to be clean?"

"Oh, perfectly."

"I remember his father always was--unusually so for a common
labourer. Those people sometimes smell of cattle, you know; and
besides, my nose has grown extremely sensitive in the years since
I lost my eyesight. Perhaps it would be as well to hand me the
bottle of camphor. I can pretend I have a headache."

"There's no need, really; he isn't a labourer at all, you know,
and he looks quite a gentleman. He is, I believe, considered a
very handsome young man."

Mrs. Blake waved toward the door and the piece of purple glass
flashed in the sunlight. "In that case, I might offer him some
sensible advice," she said. "The Weatherbys, I remember, always
showed a very proper respect for gentle people. I distinctly
recall how well Jacob behaved when on one occasion Micajah
Blair--a dreadful, dissolute character, though of a very old
family and an intimate friend of your father's--took decidedly
too much egg-nog one Christmas when he was visiting us, and
insisted upon biting Jacob's cheek because it looked so like a
winesap. Jacob had come to see your father on business, and I
will say that he displayed a great deal of good sense and
dignity; he said afterward that he didn't mind the bite on his
cheek at all, but that it pained him terribly to see a Virginia
gentleman who couldn't balance a bowl of egg-nog. Well, well,
Micajah was certainly a rake, I fear; and for that matter, so was