his demure face and cat-like, trustless eyes, than by a wooden leg and stout crutch: there was a kind of leer about his lips, he seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing, his whole air was anything but that of a true man.
“Good-morning, Mr. Barraclough,” said Moore debonnairely, for him.
“Peace be unto you!” was the answer: Mr. Barraclough entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes as he delivered it.
“I’m obliged to you: peace is an excellent thing; there’s nothing I more wish for myself; but that is not all you have to say to me, I suppose? I imagine peace is not your purpose?”
“As to our purpose,” began Barraclough, “it’s one that may sound strange, and perhaps foolish to ears like yours, for the childer of this world is wiser in their generation than the childer of light.”
“To the point, if you please, and let me hear what it is.”
“Ye’se hear, sir; if I cannot get it off, there’s eleven behint can help me. It is a grand purpose, and (changing his voice from a half-sneer to a whine) it’s the Looard’s own purpose, and that’s better.”
“Do you want a subscription to a new Ranter’s chapel, Mr. Barraclough? Unless your errand be something of that sort, I cannot see what you have to do with it.”
