When she did, there sat the peddler displaying his wares, and
expatiating volubly on their transcendent merits. And there stood Sally
and Mrs. Oleander, devouring the contents of the box with greedy eyes.
It is not in the heart of women--country women, particularly--to resist
the fascinations of the peddler's pack.
Mrs. Oleander and her old servant were rather of the strong-minded
order; but their eyes glistened avariciously, for all that, at the
display of combs, and brushes, and handkerchiefs, and ribbons, and gaudy
prints, and stockings, and cotton cloth, and all the innumerables that
peddlers do delight in.
"This red-and-black silk handkerchief, ma'am," the peddler was crying,
holding up a gay square of silk tartan, "is one fifty, and dirt cheap at
that. Seein' it's you, ma'am, however, I'll take a dollar for it. Wuth
two--it is, by ginger! Sold three dozens on 'em down the village, and
got two dollars apiece for 'em, every one."
"I'll take it at a dollar," said Mrs. Oleander. "Sally, that piece of
brown merino would just suit you."
"Makes up lovely, ma'am," said the peddler, turning to Sally; "only four
dollars for the hull piece.
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