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While she was absent, a smart wagon drove up to the gate, and a young man alighted from it, hitched his horse, and knocked at the front door. Aunt Melissa saw him coming, and peered at him over her glasses with an unrecognizing stare.

“‘Mandy!” she called, “‘Mandy, here’s a pedler or suthin’! If he’s got any essences, you ask him for a little bottle o’ pep’mint.”

Amanda dropped the pile of coverlets on the sofa, and went to the front door. Presently she reappeared, and with her, smoothly talking her down, came the young man. His eyes lighted first on the coverlets, with a look of cheerful satisfaction.

“Got all ready for me, didn’t you?” he asked, briskly. “Heard I was coming, I guess.”

He was a man of an alert Yankee type, with waxed blond mustache and eye-glasses; he was evidently to be classed among those who have exchanged their country honesty for a veneer of city knowingness.

“For the land’s sake!” ejaculated Aunt Melissa, as soon as she had him at short range, “you’re the one down to Blaisdell’s that’s buyin’ up all the old truck in the neighborhood. Well, you won’t git my andirons!”

He had begun to unfold the blue coverlets and examine them with a practised eye, while Amanda stood by, painfully conscious that some decisive action might be required of her; and her mother sat watching the triumph of her quilts in pleased importance.

“They ain’t worth much,” he said, dropping them, with a conclusive air. “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 bought our little place, I said to her, ‘We’ll have it all furnished with old-fashioned goods.’ And here I am, taking, time away from my business, riding round the country, and paying good money for what’s no use to anybody but me.”

“What is your business?” interrupted Aunt Melissa.

“Oh, insurance–a little of everything–Jack-of-all-trades!” Then he turned to Old Mrs. Green, and asked, abruptly, “What’ll you take for that clock?”

The old lady followed his alert forefinger until her eyes rested on the tall eight-day clock in the corner. She straightened herself in her chair, and spoke with pride:–

“That was Jonathan’s gre’t-uncle Samwell’s. He wound it every Sunday night, reg’lar as the day come round. I’ve rubbed that case up till I sweat like rain. ‘Mandy she rubs it now.”

“Well, what’ll you take?” persisted he, while Amanda, in wordless protest, stepped in front of the clock. “Five dollars?”

“Five dollars,” repeated the old lady, lapsing into senseless iteration. “Yes, five dollars.”

But Aunt Melissa came to the rescue.

“Five dollars for that clock?” she repeated, winding her ball, and running the needles into it with a conclusive stab. “Well, I guess there ain’t any eight-day clocks goin’ out o’ this house for five dollars, if they go at all! ‘Mandy, why don’t you speak up, an’ not stand there like a chicken with the pip?”