"So you won't take the brown, ma'am? Sorry we can't make a trade; but
I'll run up again to-morrow with a new lot, and I've no doubt we can
strike a bargain. Good-morning, ladies."
With which Mr. Peddler shouldered his pack and trudged away, singing.
Old Peter let him out, and locked the gate after, and watched him out
of sight. The peddler ceased his song the moment he was out of hearing,
struck into the woods the instant he was out of sight, and flinging his
pack on the grass, tore it open.
He had not long to search--Mrs. Sharpe's tarnished old thimble was
conspicuous enough among his glistening new ones. He fished it up, poked
out the crumpled bit of paper, and slowly read it through. When read, he
tore it into fifty morsels, and scattered them in a white shower all
about. Then, with knitted brows and compressed lips, he sat and thought
and thought for a full hour.
Meanwhile, matters went on smoothly behind him. Mrs. Sharpe, having
finished the washing, and quite won the hearts of the two old women by
her workmanlike manner, prepared her patient's dinner, and brought it
up.
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