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Next to him sat Colonel Iston, a tall, lean, quiet old gentleman, who had, for a long series of years, occupied the position of a last apple on a tree. He had no relatives, no friends with whom he corresponded, no business that was not conducted by word of mouth.
Even old Madison Chalkley, his stout legs swaddled in home-made overalls, dismounted from his horse, and Colonel Iston raised his tall form from the porch step where he had been sitting, and approached the cart. "Upon my word," said a young fellow, with high boots, slouched hat, and a riding whip, "if here ain't old Aunt Patsy come after a letter! Where do you expect a letter from, Aunt Patsy?"
In the last fifteen years he had received but one letter, and that had so surprised him that he carried it about with him three days before he opened it, and then he found that it was really intended for a gentleman of the same name in another county. And yet everybody knew that if Colonel Iston failed to appear in his place on mail day, it would be because he was dead or prostrated by sickness.
"I do not pretend," said she, "to be a critic in the Greek; but I think I am able to read a little of Homer, at least with the help of looking now and then into the Latin." "Pray, madam," said the doctor, "how do you like this passage in the speech of Hector to Andromache: Eis oikon iousa ta sautes erga komize, Iston t elakaten te, kai amphipoloisi keleue Ergon epoichesthai?
"I do not pretend," said she, "to be a critic in the Greek; but I think I am able to read a little of Homer, at least with the help of looking now and then into the Latin." "Pray, madam," said the doctor, "how do you like this passage in the speech of Hector to Andromache: Eis oikon iousa ta sautes erga komize, Iston t elakaten te, kai amphipoloisi keleue Ergon epoichesthai?
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