Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought out of
the "right-hand parlour," was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty
was not disposed to sleep; and when her cousins entered, she raised
herself up and showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than
ever now they were defined by the edge of her linen night-cap.
In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand chimney-nook sat
old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image of his portly
black-haired son--his head hanging forward a little, and his elbows
pushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his forearm to rest on the
arm of the chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, as
was usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head; and he sat
watching what went forward with the quiet OUTWARD glance of healthy old
age, which, disengaged from any interest in an inward drama, spies out
pins upon the floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexpectant
purposeless tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the
sun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches even
the hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a rhythm in the
tick.
"What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty!" said Mrs.
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