“Will you do it—­or shall I?”

“I’ll do it,” said the clerk; “and tell you if your services are wanted.”

Mr. Hillary walked off at a quick pace.  There was a good deal of illness in Calne at that season, though the fever had not spread.

Whether Clerk Gum kept his word, or whether he did not, certain it was that Mr. Hillary heard nothing from him that day.  In the evening the clerk was sitting in his office in a thoughtful mood, busy over some accounts connected with an insurance company for which he was agent, when he heard a quick sharp knock at the front-door.

“I wonder if it’s Hillary?” he muttered, as he took the candle and rose to open it.

Instead of the surgeon, there entered a lady, with much energy.  It was the bete noire of Clerk Gum’s life, Mrs. Jones.

“What’s the house shut up for at this early hour?” she began.  “The door locked, the shutters up, and the blinds down, just as if everybody was dead or asleep.  Where’s Nance?”

“She’s out,” said the clerk.  “I suppose she shut up before she went, and I’ve been in my office all the afternoon.  Do you want anything?”

“Do I want anything!” retorted Mrs. Jones.  “I’ve come in to shelter from the rain.  It’s been threatening all the evening, and it’s coming down now like cats and dogs.”

The clerk was leading the way to the little parlour; but she ignored the movement, and went on to the kitchen.  He could only follow her.  “It’s a pity you came out when it threatened rain,” said he.

“Business took me out,” replied Mrs. Jones.  “I’ve been up to the mill.  I heard young Rip was ill, and going to leave; so I went up to ask if they’d try our Jim.  But young Rip isn’t going to leave, and isn’t ill, mother Floyd says, though it’s certain he’s not well.  She can’t think what’s the matter with the boy; he’s always fancying he sees ghosts in the river.  I’ve had my trapes for nothing.”

She had given her gown a good shake from the rain-drops in the middle of the kitchen, and was now seated before the fire.  The clerk stood by the table, occasionally snuffing the candle, and wishing she’d take herself off again.

“Where’s Nancy gone?” asked she.

“I didn’t hear her say.”

“And she’ll be gone a month of Sundays, I suppose.  I shan’t wait for her, if the rain gives over.”

“You’d be more comfortable in the small parlour,” said the clerk, who seemed rather fidgety; “there’s a nice bit of fire there.”

“I’m more comfortable here,” contradicted Mrs. Jones.  “Where’s the good of a bit of fire for a gown as wet as mine?”

Jabez Gum made no response.  There was the lady, a fixture; and he could only resign himself to the situation.

“How’s your friend at the next house—­Pike?” she began again sarcastically.

“He’s no friend of mine,” said the clerk.

“It looks like it, at all events; or you’d have given him into custody long ago. I wouldn’t let a man harbour himself so close to me.  He’s taken to a new dodge now:  going about with a pistol to shoot people.”