he
most unfavorable impression which the most disagreeable of all possible
strangers could produce.

But the first appearance of Old Sharon--as dirty as ever, clothed in
a long, frowzy, gray overcoat, with his pug-dog at his heels, and his
smoke-blackened pipe in his mouth, with a tan white hat on his head,
which looked as if it had been picked up in a gutter, a hideous leer
in his eyes, and a jaunty trip in his walk--took her so completely
by surprise that she could only return Moody's friendly greeting by
silently pressing his hand. As for Moody's companion, to look at him for
a second time was more than she had resolution to do. She kept her eyes
fixed on the pug-dog, and with good reason; as far as appearances went,
he was indisputably the nobler animal of the two.

Under the circumstances, the interview threatened to begin in a very
embarrassing manner. Moody, disheartened by Isabel's silence, made no
attempt to set the conversation going; he looked as if he meditated
a hasty retreat to the railway station which he had just left.
Fortunately, he had at his side the right man (for once) in the right
place. Old Sharon's effrontery was equal to any emergency.

"I am not a nice-looking old man, my dear, am I?" he said, leering at
Isabel with cunning, half-closed eyes. "Bless your heart! you'll soon
get used to me! You see, I am the sort of color, as they say at the
linen-drapers, that doesn't wash well. It's all through love; upon
my life it is! Early in the present century I had my young affections
blighted; and I've neglected myself ever since. Disappointment takes
different forms, miss, in different men. I don't think I have had heart
enough to brush my hair for the last fifty years. She was a magnificent
woman, Mr. Moody, and she dropped me like a hot potato. Dreadful!
dreadful! Let us pursue this painful subject no further. Ha! here's a
pretty country! Here's a nice blue sky! I admire the country, miss; I
see so little of it, you know. Have you any objection to walk along into
the fields? The fields, my dear, bring out all the poetry of my nature.
Where's the dog? Here, Puggy! Puggy! hunt about, my man, and find some
dog-grass. Does his inside good, you know, after a meat diet in London.
Lord! how I feel my spirits rising in this fine air! Does my complexion
look any brighter, miss? Will you run a race with me, Mr. Moody, or will
you oblige me with a back at leap-frog? I'm not mad, my dear young lady;
I'm only