butter; its destiny hovered between avoirdupois and the measure of
capacity. A literature of advertisements hung around; ginger-beer,
blacking, blue, &c., with a certain 'Samaritan salve,' proclaimed
themselves in many-coloured letters. One descried, too, a scrubby
but significant little card, which bore the address of a loan
office.

The music issued from the parlour behind the shop; it ceased as
Ackroyd approached the counter, and at the sound of his footsteps
appeared Mrs. Bower. She was a stout woman of middle age, red of
face, much given to laughter, wholesomely vulgar. At four o'clock
every afternoon she laid aside her sober garments of the working day
and came forth in an evening costume which was the admiration and
envy of Paradise Street. Popular from a certain wordy good-humour
which she always had at command, she derived from this evening garb
a social superiority which friends and neighbours, whether they
would or no were constrained to recognise. She was deemed a
well-to-do woman, and as such--Paradise Street held it axiomatic--
might reasonably adorn herself for the respect of those to whom she
sold miscellaneous pennyworths. She did not depend upon the
business. Her husband, as we already know, was a foreman at Egremont
& Pollard's oilcloth manufactory; they were known to have money laid
by. You saw in her face that life had been smooth with her from the
beginning. She wore a purple dress with a yellow fichu, in which was
fixed a large silver brooch; on her head was a small lace cap. Her
hands were enormous, and very red. As she came into the shop, she
mopped her forehead with a handkerchief; perspiration streamed from
every pore.

'What a man you are for keepin' yourself cool, Mr. Hackroyd!' she