While the pudding was being eaten, Mr. Dale walked round amongst his
humble guests, to exchange a few kindly words here and there; to shake
hands; to pat little children's flaxen heads; to make friendly
inquiries for the sick and absent.
As he paused to talk to one of his parishioners, his attention was
attracted by a strange face. It was the face of an old man, who sat at
the opposite side of the table, and seemed entirely absorbed by the
agreeable task of making his way through a noble slice of plum-pudding.
"Who is that old man opposite?" asked Lionel of the agricultural
labourer to whom he had been talking. "I don't think I know his face."
"No, sir," answered the farm-labourer; "he don't belong to these parts.
Gaffer Hayfield brought 'un. I suppose as how he's a relation of
Gaffer's. It seems a bit of a liberty, sir; but Gaffer Hayfield always
war a cool hand."
"I don't think it a liberty, William. If the man is a relation of
Hayfield's, there is no reason why he should not be here with the
Gaffer," answered Lionel, good-naturedly, "I am glad to Bee that he is
enjoying his dinner."
"Yes, sir," replied the farm-labourer, with a grin; "he seems to have
an oncommon good twist of his own, wheresoever he belongs to."
No more was said about the strange guest--who was an old man, with very
white hair, which hung low over his eyebrows; and very white whiskers,
which almost covered his cheeks.
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