ng--"Well, well--come in; dinner's late,
there's time to hear you read--you're fond of books, you read a great
deal at home,"--and so talking, half to himself and half to her, he led
the way into the parlour by the shop.

Bowed by more than ninety years, his back curved over forwards, and his
limbs curved in the opposite direction, so that the outline of his form
resembled a flattened capital S. For his chin hung over his chest, and
his knees never straightened themselves, but were always more or less
bent as he stood or walked. It was much the attitude of a strong man
heavily laden and unable to stand upright--such an attitude as big Jack
Duck in his great strength might take when carrying two sacks of wheat
at once. There was as heavy a load on Grandfather Iden's back, but Time
is invisible.

He wore a grey suit, as a true miller and baker should, and had worn the
same cut and colour for years and years. In the shop, too, he always
had a grey hat on, perhaps its original hue was white, but it got to
appear grey upon him; a large grey chimney-pot, many sizes too big for
his head apparently, for it looked as if for ever about to descend and
put out his face like an extinguisher. Though his boots were so
carefully polished, they quickly took a grey tint from the flour dust as
he pottered about the bins in the morning. The ends of his trousers, too
long for his antique shanks, folded and creased over his boots, and
almost hid his grey cloth under-gaiters.

A great knobbed old nose--but stay, I will not go further, it is not
right to paint too faithfully the features of the very aged, which are
repellent in spite of themselves; I mean, they cannot help their faces,
their sentiments and actions are another matter; therefore I will leave
Father Iden's face as a dim blot on the mirror; you look in it and it
reflects everywhere, except one spot.

Amaryllis followed him jauntily,--little did she care, reckless girl,
for the twenty thousand guineas in the iron box under his bed.

The cottage folk, who always know so much, had endless tales of Iden's
wealth; how years ago bushels upon bushels of pennies, done up in
five-shilling packets, had been literally carted like potatoes away from
the bakehouse to go to London; how ponies were laden with sacks of
silver groats, all paid over that furrowed counter for the golden flour,
dust more golden than the sands of ancient Pactolus.

Reckless Amaryllis cared not a pin for all the