He laughed a choked laugh, more like a chuckle than like a laugh.

"He! he! child. Dust don't hurt me. Goin' to return to 't presently. Made
on 't! made on 't! Don't see why folks need be so 'fraid on 't! He! he! 'T
is pretty choky, though." And he sat down on one of the leather rolls, and
held his sides through a hard coughing fit. As the dust slowly subsided,
Mercy saw standing far back in the corner, where the bales of leather had
hidden it, an old-fashioned clock, so like her own that she gave a low cry
of surprise.

"Oh, is that the clock you meant, Mr. Wheeler?" she exclaimed.

"Yes, yes, that's it. Nice old clock. Took it for debt. Cost me more'n
't's wuth. As fur that matter, 'tain't wuth nothin' to me. Wouldn't hev it
in the house 'n' more than I'd git the town 'us tower in for a clock. D'ye
like it, child? Ye can hev it's well's not. I'd like to give it to ye."

"I should like it very much, very much indeed," replied Mercy. "But I
really cannot think of taking it, unless you let us pay for it."

The old man sprung to his feet with such impatience that the leather bale
rolled away from him, and he nearly lost his balance. Mercy sprang forward
and caught him.

"Bless my soul! Bless my soul! Don't pester me, child! Don't you see I'm
an old man? I tell ye I'll give ye the clock, an' I won't sell it ter
ye,--won't, won't, won't," and he picked up his cane, and stood leaning
upon it with both his hands clasped on it, and his head bent forward,
eagerly scanning Mercy's face. She hesitated still, and began to speak
again.