Taking up her position beyond the houses, on the day and at the hour mentioned by Moody, she believed herself to be fully prepared for the most unfavorable impression which the most disagreeable of all possible strangers could produce.

But the first appearance of Old Sharon—­as dirty as ever, clothed in a long, frowzy, gray overcoat, with his pug-dog at his heels, and his smoke-blackened pipe in his mouth, with a tan white hat on his head, which looked as if it had been picked up in a gutter, a hideous leer in his eyes, and a jaunty trip in his walk—­took her so completely by surprise that she could only return Moody’s friendly greeting by silently pressing his hand.  As for Moody’s companion, to look at him for a second time was more than she had resolution to do.  She kept her eyes fixed on the pug-dog, and with good reason; as far as appearances went, he was indisputably the nobler animal of the two.

Under the circumstances, the interview threatened to begin in a very embarrassing manner.  Moody, disheartened by Isabel’s silence, made no attempt to set the conversation going; he looked as if he meditated a hasty retreat to the railway station which he had just left.  Fortunately, he had at his side the right man (for once) in the right place.  Old Sharon’s effrontery was equal to any emergency.

“I am not a nice-looking old man, my dear, am I?” he said, leering at Isabel with cunning, half-closed eyes.  “Bless your heart! you’ll soon get used to me!  You see, I am the sort of color, as they say at the linen-drapers, that doesn’t wash well.  It’s all through love; upon my life it is!  Early in the present century I had my young affections blighted; and I’ve neglected myself ever since.  Disappointment takes different forms, miss, in different men.  I don’t think I have had heart enough to brush my hair for the last fifty years.  She was a magnificent woman, Mr. Moody, and she dropped me like a hot potato.  Dreadful! dreadful!  Let us pursue this painful subject no further.  Ha! here’s a pretty country!  Here’s a nice blue sky!  I admire the country, miss; I see so little of it, you know.  Have you any objection to walk along into the fields?  The fields, my dear, bring out all the poetry of my nature.  Where’s the dog?  Here, Puggy!  Puggy! hunt about, my man, and find some dog-grass.  Does his inside good, you know, after a meat diet in London.  Lord! how I feel my spirits rising in this fine air!  Does my complexion look any brighter, miss?  Will you run a race with me, Mr. Moody, or will you oblige me with a back at leap-frog?  I’m not mad, my dear young lady; I’m only merry.  I live, you see, in the London stink; and the smell of the hedges and the wild flowers is too much for me at first.  It gets into my head, it does.  I’m drunk!  As I live by bread, I’m drunk on fresh air!  Oh! what a jolly day!  Oh! how young and innocent I do feel!” Here his innocence got the better of him, and he began to sing, “I wish I were a little fly, in my love’s bosom for to lie!” “Hullo! here we are on the nice soft grass! and, oh, my gracious! there’s a bank running down into a hollow!  I can’t stand that, you know.  Mr. Moody, hold my hat, and take the greatest care of it.  Here goes for a roll down the bank!”