Meantime, Mercy was slowly walking towards the village, revolving her own little perplexities, and with a mind much freer from the thought of Stephen White than it had been for four weeks.  Mercy was in a dilemma.  Their clock was broken, hopelessly broken.  It had been packed in too frail a box; and heavier boxes placed above it had crashed through, making a complete wreck of the whole thing,—­frame, works, all.  It was a high, old-fashioned Dutch clock, and had stood in the corner of their sitting-room ever since Mercy could recollect.  It had belonged to her father’s father, and had been her mother’s wedding gift from him.

“It’s easy enough to get a clock that will keep good time,” thought Mercy, as she walked along; “but, oh, how I shall miss the dear old thing!  It looked like a sort of belfry in the corner.  I wonder if there are any such clocks to be bought anywhere nowadays?” She stopped presently before a jeweller’s and watchmaker’s shop in the Brick Row, and eagerly scrutinized the long line of clocks standing in the window.  Very ugly they all were,—­cheap, painted wood, of a shining red, and tawdry pictures on the doors, which ran up to a sharp point in a travesty of the Gothic arch outline.

“Oh, dear!” sighed Mercy, involuntarily aloud.

“Bless my soul!  Bless my soul!” fell suddenly upon her ear, in sharp, jerking syllables, accompanied by clicking taps of a cane on the sidewalk.  She turned and looked into the face of her friend, “Old Man Wheeler,” who was standing so near her that with each of his rapid shiftings from foot to foot he threatened to tread on the hem of her gown.

“Bless my soul!  Bless my soul!  Glad to see ye.  Missed your face.  How’re ye gettin’ on?  Gone into your house?  How’s your mother?  I’ll come see you, if you’re settled.  Don’t go to see anybody,—­never go! never go!  People are all wolves, wolves, wolves; but I’ll come an’ see you.  Like your face,—­good face, good face.  What’re you lookin’ at?  What’re you lookin’ at?  Ain’t goin’ to buy any thin’ out o’ that winder, be ye?  Trash, trash, trash!  People are all cheats, cheats,” said the old man, breathlessly.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to, sir,” replied Mercy, vainly trying to keep the muscles of her face quiet.  “I must buy a clock.  Our clock got broken on the way.”

“Broken?  Clock broken?  Mend it, mend it, child.  I’ll show you a good man, not this feller in here,—­he’s only good for outsides.  Holler sham, holler sham!  What kind o’ clock was it?”

“Oh, that’s the worst of it.  It was an old clock my grandfather brought from Holland.  It reached up to the ceiling, and had beautiful carved work on it.  But it’s in five hundred pieces, I do believe.  A heavy box crushed it.  Even the brass work inside is all jammed and twisted.  Our things came by sea,” replied Mercy.

“Bless my soul!  Bless my soul!  Come on, come on!  I’ll show you,” exclaimed the eccentric old man, starting off at a quick pace.  Mercy did not stir.  Presently, he looked back, wheeled, and came again so near that he nearly trod on her gown.