CHAPTER X.
"There's nob'dy but the Lord an' me That knows what I've to bide." -- NATTERIN NAN.
The slipshod old tailor shuffled after us to the door, talking about the signs of the times.

His frame was bowed with age and labour, and his shoulders drooped away.

It was drawing near the time when the grasshopper would be a burden to him.

A hard life had silently engraved its faithful records upon that furrowed face; but there was a cheerful ring in his voice which told of a hopeful spirit within him still.

The old man's nostrils were dusty with snuff, and his poor garments hung about his shrunken form in the careless ease which is common to the tailor's shopboard.