Nor, until the last day of his visit, did Owen see old Mrs
Dorman.
That she was not unaware of his presence in the house, however, was
indicated on the last morning. He was smoking an after-breakfast pipe
at the open window and waiting for the dog-cart that was to take him to
the station, when George, the son of the house, entered.
George stood in the doorway, grinned, and said:
'Farsezjerligranmatellyerforchbythecards?'
'Eh?' said Owen.
The youth repeated the word.
'Once again.'
On the second repetition light began to creep in. A boyhood spent in
the place, added to this ten days' stay, had made Owen something of a
linguist.
'Father says would I like grandma to do what?'
'Tell yer forch'n by ther cards.'
'Where is she?'
'Backyarnder.'
Owen followed him into the kitchen, where he found Mr Dorman, the
farmer, and, seated at the table, fumbling with a pack of cards, an old
woman, whom he remembered well.
'Mother wants to tell your fortune,' said Mr Dorman, in a hoarse aside.
'She always will tell visitors' fortunes. She told Mr Prosser's, and he
didn't half like it, because she said he'd be engaged in two months and
married inside the year. He said wild horses wouldn't make him do it.'
'She can tell me that if she likes. I shan't object.'
'Mother, here's Mr Owen.
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