Behind the counter, on the left hand, stood a youth of about
twenty, young George Turnbull, the son of the principal partner,
occupied in leisurely folding and putting aside a number of
things he had been showing to a farmer's wife, who was just gone.
He was an ordinary-looking lad, with little more than business in
his high forehead, fresh-colored, good-humored, self-satisfied
cheeks, and keen hazel eyes. These last kept wandering from his
not very pressing occupation to the other side of the shop, where
stood, behind the opposing counter, a young woman, in attendance
upon the wants of a well-dressed youth in front of it, who had
just made choice of a pair of driving-gloves. His air and
carriage were conventionally those of a gentleman--a gentleman,
however, more than ordinarily desirous of pleasing a young woman
behind a counter. She answered him with politeness, and even
friendliness, nor seemed aware of anything unusual in his
attentions.

"They're splendid gloves," he said, making talk; "but don't you
think it a great price for a pair of gloves, Miss Marston?"

"It is a good deal of money," she answered, in a sweet, quiet
voice, whose very tone suggested simplicity and
straightforwardness; "but they will last you a long time. Just
look at the work, Mr. Helmer. You see how they are made? It is
much more difficult to stitch them like that, one edge over the
other, than to sew the two edges together, as they do with
ladies' gloves. But I'll just ask my father whether he marked
them himself."

"He did mark those, I know," said young Turnbull, who had been