He was glad enough to see all the young people, but they were not 'of his kidney,' as he expressed it to himself, and he did not feel any call upon himself to entertain them.

He left that to his bustling wife, all smartness and smiles, and to his daughters and son-in-law.

His efforts at hospitality consisted in sitting still, smoking his pipe; when any one came, he took it out of his mouth for an instant, and nodded his head in a cheerful friendly way, without a word of speech; and then returned to his smoking with the greater relish for the moment's intermission.

He thought to himself:-- 'They're a set o' young chaps as thinks more on t' lasses than on baccy;--they'll find out their mistake in time; give 'em time, give 'em time.' And before eight o'clock, he went as quietly as a man of twelve stone can upstairs to bed, having made a previous arrangement with his wife that she should bring him up about two pounds of spiced beef, and a hot tumbler of stiff grog.

But at the beginning of the evening he formed a good screen for Sylvia, who was rather a favourite with the old man, for twice he spoke to her.
'Feyther smokes ?' 'Yes,' said Sylvia.
'Reach me t' baccy-box, my lass.' And that was all the conversation that passed between her and her nearest neighbour for the first quarter of an hour after she came into company.
But, for all her screen, she felt a pair of eyes were fixed upon her with a glow of admiration deepening their honest brightness.
Somehow, look in what direction she would, she caught the glance of those eyes before she could see anything else.