'No, my dear,' said my mother, 'you are not quite right. Your uncle will grow very fond of that pipe by and by.'
My mother always won me over to her way of thinking, and I thought the failure might be due to the bungling manner in which I had presented the birthday offerings. I walked about the kitchen, and spoke to myself the speech I had intended to make, with the most beautiful effect. It was a masterpiece of elegant phrasing, and every sentence was beautifully rounded, and came trippingly off the tongue. Of course I was much annoyed that the opportunity of impressing uncle Bryan with my eloquence was lost. When we reëntered the room, uncle Bryan's head was resting on his hand, and there was an expression of weariness in his face, which had grown pale and sad during our brief absence. My mother's keen eyes instantly detected the change.
'You are not well, Bryan,' she said, in a concerned tone, stepping to his side.
'There are two things that disagree with me, Emma,' he replied, with a grim and unsuccessful attempt at humour; 'my own medicine is one, memory is another. I've been taking a dose of each. There, don't bother me. I have a slight headache, that's all.'
But although he tried to turn it off thus lightly, he was certainly far from well; for he asked my mother to attend to the shop, and leaning back in his chair, threw a handkerchief over his face, and fell asleep. My mother and I talked in whispers, so as not to disturb him. Uncle Bryan was not a supporter of the early-closing movement, for he kept his shop open until eleven o'clock every night. Very dismal it must have looked from the outside in the long winter nights, lighted up by only one tallow candle; but it had always a home appearance for me, from the first day I entered it. The shop-door which led into the street was closed, and so was the door of the parlour in which we were sitting. The upper half of this door was glass, to enable us to see into the shop. My mother's hearing was generally very acute, and the slightest tap on the counter was sufficient to arouse her attention; but the tapping was seldom needed, for the shop-door, having a complaining creak in its hinges, never failed to announce the entrance of a customer. On this night, customers were like angels' visits, few and far between. It was nearly ten o'clock; uncle Bryan was still sleeping; my mother, whose hands were never idle, was working as usual; I was reading a volume of Chambers's Traits for the People, from which many a young mind has received healthy nourishment. I was deep in the touching story of 'Picciola, or the Prison Flower,' when an amazing incident occurred--heralded by a tap at the parlour-door.
Whoever it was that knocked must not only have opened the street-door, but must have silenced its watch-dog creak (by bribery, perhaps); or else my mother's hearing must have played her very false. Again, it was necessary to lift the ledge of the counter and creep under it, before the parlour-door could be reached.
My mother started to her feet; and opened the door. A young girl, with bonnet and cloak on, stood before us. I thought immediately of the fairy in the cotton-print dress; but no, it was not she who had thus mysteriously appeared. The girl looked at us in silence.
'You should have tapped on the counter, my dear,' said my mother.
'What for?' was the answer, in the most musical voice I had ever heard. 'I don't want to buy anything.'
This was a puzzling rejoinder. If she did not want to buy anything, why was she here?