"Fact is, they ain't worth anything, unless any body's got a fancy for
such old stuff. I'll tell you what, I'll give you fifty cents apiece
for the lot! How many are there here--four? Two dollars, then."

Amanda took a hasty step forward.

"But we don't want to sell our coverlids!" she said, indignantly,
casting an appealing glance at Aunt Melissa.

"I guess they don't want to git rid on 'em," said that lady,
"'specially at such a price. They're wuth more 'n that to cover up the
squashes when the frost comes."

"Mother wove 'em herself," exclaimed Amanda, irrelevantly. It began to
seem to her as if the invader might pack up her mother's treasures and
walk off with them.

"Well, then, I s'pose they're hers to do as she likes with?" he said,
pleasantly, tipping back, in his chair, and beginning to pare his nails
with an air of nicety that fascinated Amanda into watching him.
"They're hers, I s'pose?" he continued, looking suddenly and keenly up
at her.

"Why, yes," she answered, "they're mother's, but she don't want to
sell. She sets by 'em."

"Just like me, for all the world," owned the stranger, "Now there's
plenty of folks that wouldn't care a Hannah Cook about such old truck,
but it just hits me in the right spot. Mother's doughnuts, mother's
mince-pies, I say! Can't improve on _them_! And when my wife and I