"He's no tramp or beggar," I retorted, stoutly, "he's Granfa."
"Granfa! Granfa who? Noan o' your nonsense, now, byes. What's the truth now, spit it out!"
"He's Granfa," I reiterated, desperately, "Our own nice grandfather that we haven't seen for years, and—he's just come for a nice little visit with us. Why, Mary Ellen, the Bishop knows him—"
"Known him for years," put in Angel. "Went to Harrow together."
"Ess fay," assented Granfa, eagerly. "Us were boon companions up to Harrer."
"The Bishop brought him wight here in the pony twap," added The Seraph, "and we'd all yike a little nushment, please."
Mary Ellen, in spite of herself, was half convinced. Granfa's blue eyes were so candid; there was an air of dignity about his snow-white locks and beard, that disarmed hostility.
"Look here, now," said Mary Ellen, in an aside, to us, "he seems a nice ould gentlemin enough, but think av the throuble ye got us in over Giftie, sure I won't have yez experimentalling wid grandfathers."
Granfa appeared to have overheard, for he spoke up.
"I just want to bide here a little while, my
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