“That’s very wisely said. Everybody covets a little something for which, perhaps, nobody else would give a straw. But what’s the very little thing for which you are sighing?”
“Mrs. Bawtrey wants to sell that shop of hers. She is getting old, and has had fits; and she can get nobody to buy; and if Will had that shop and I could keep it,—but ‘tis no use thinking of that.”
“What shop do you mean?”
“There!”
“Where? I see no shop.”
“But it is the shop of the village,—the only one,—where the post-office is.”
“Ah! I see something at the windows like a red cloak. What do they sell?”
“Everything,—tea and sugar and candles and shawls and gowns and cloaks and mouse-traps and letter-paper; and Mrs. Bawtrey buys poor Will’s baskets, and sells them for a good deal more than she pays.”
“It seems a nice cottage, with a field and orchard at the back.”
“Yes. Mrs. Bawtrey pays L8 a year for it; but the shop can well afford it.”