"Oh, yes, twice," I answer, cheerfully; "once by a travelling man who came round, and did us all very cheaply indeed (I think for fourpence or sixpence a head); and once in Carston. I had a dozen taken then; but when I had given one each to them all at home, and one to Martha, I found I had no use for the others, and had only wasted my pocket-money. Perhaps"—diffidently—" you would like one?"
"Like it!" says Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled-for eagerness: "I should rather think I would. Will you really give me one, Phyllis?"
"Of course," I answer, with surprise: "they are no use to me, and have been tossing about in my drawer for six months. Will you have a Carston one? I really think it is the best. Though, if you put your hand over the eyes, the itinerant's is rather like me."
"What happened to the eyes?"
"There is a faint cast in the right one. The man said it was the way I always looked, but I don't think so myself. You don't think I have a squint, do you, Mr. Carrington?"
Here I open my blue-gray eyes to their widest and gaze at my companion in anxious inquiry.
"No, I don't see it," returns he, when he has subjected the eyes in question to a close and lingering examination, Then he laughs a little, and I laugh too, to encourage him, and because at this time of my life gayety of any sort seems good, and tears and laughter are very near to me; and presently we are both making merry over my description of the wanderer's production.
"What o'clock is it," I ask, a little later. "It must be time for me to go home, and Billy will be waiting."
Having told me the hour, he says:
"Have you no watch, Phyllis?"