He replied, "You should shut your door--then you'd hear folk open
it."

"I can't," she said; "the chimney smokes so. Mr. Percombe, you
look as unnatural out of your shop as a canary in a thorn-hedge.
Surely you have not come out here on my account--for--"

"Yes--to have your answer about this." He touched her head with
his cane, and she winced. "Do you agree?" he continued. "It is
necessary that I should know at once, as the lady is soon going
away, and it takes time to make up."

"Don't press me--it worries me. I was in hopes you had thought no
more of it. I can NOT part with it--so there!"

"Now, look here, Marty," said the barber, sitting down on the
coffin-stool table. "How much do you get for making these spars?"

"Hush--father's up-stairs awake, and he don't know that I am doing
his work."

"Well, now tell me," said the man, more softly. "How much do you
get?"

"Eighteenpence a thousand," she said, reluctantly.

"Who are you making them for?"

"Mr. Melbury, the timber-dealer, just below here."