Mrs. Sharpe dropped her basket in a pet and stalked back to the house.

“It’s a peddler-man,” she said, crossly, “a-wanting to come in.  I told him he couldn’t, and it’s of no use; and the best thing you can do is to set the dogs on him.”

“No, no!” cried Mrs. Oleander, shrilly.  “Let him come in.  I like peddlers.  Go with her, Sally, and tell the man to come round to the garden gate.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Susan Sharpe, stalking out again.  “Let Sally go and open the gate.”

She marched across the yard and addressed the “perambulating merchant.”

“You’re to go round to the front gate.  This way.  I’ve a note for you in my thimble.  I’ll drop the thimble in your box.”

The first half of Mrs. Sharpe’s speech was given for the benefit of Mrs. Oleander’s greedy ears—­the latter half, hurriedly and in a low voice, for his own.

The sagacious peddler nodded, struck up a second stave of his ditty, and trudged round to the front gate.

Mrs. Sharpe finished hanging out the clothes before she re-entered the kitchen.  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.  Jest feel of it—­soft as a baby’s skin.  Halloo! miss, what can I do for you?”

This last to Susan Sharpe, who had set down her basket, and was looking on.

“Nothing,” replied Susan, with asperity.

“Oh, now, don’t you say that!” exclaimed this persuasive man; “you do want suthin’—­lots o’ things—­I kin see it in them air sparklin’ eyes o’ your’n.  What makes you wear green glasses.  See here, I’ve blue, and white, and fancy colors, with silver straddles for the nose.  Do look at ’em—­there’s a love!”

Mrs. Oleander laughed, and Mrs. Sharpe so far unbent her austerity as to kneel down and begin rummaging the miscellaneous articles.