Mrs. Susan Sharpe was an inestimable woman in her way, but neither a
poet nor an artist. She gave a complacent glance at earth, and sky, and
water, thankful that the benign influences, in the way of weather, were
at work to aid them.
"It's a very nice night," murmured Mrs. Susan Sharpe. "Couldn't be
better if they tried ever so much. It would have been dreadful awkward
if it rained. How still the house is--like a tomb! Dear me, I hope there
was no harm done by that drug! I must go and get ready at once."
But just at that moment she heard a sharp, shrill, prolonged whistle.
She paused. An instant more and a man vaulted lightly over the high
board fence.
"Lor'!" said Mrs. Sharpe, "if it isn't him already! I hope the dogs are
done for."
It seemed as if they were, for, as she looked and listened, in
considerable trepidation, the man approached the house in swift,
swinging strides. Of course, it was the peddler. Mrs. Sharpe threw up
her window and projected her head.
"Mr. Ingelow!"
"Halloo!"
The man halted and looked up.
"Where are the dogs?"
"In the dogish elysium, I hope.
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