“Let me come up to-morrow and ask you, Mr Luke, sir. Perhaps you’ll be in a better temper then.”
“Better temper!” he cried wrathfully. “I’m always in a better temper. Because I refuse to ruin myself by having your great, idle girl to eat me out of house and home. I’m not in a good temper, eh? There, be off! or I shall say something unpleasant.”
“I’m a-going, sir. It’s all because I wouldn’t buy half a fish, as I should have had thrown on my hands, and been obliged to eat myself. Look here, sir,” cried the woman, as she adjusted the strap of her basket, “if I buy the bit of fish will you take the poor gal then?”
“No!” cried Uncle Luke, slamming the door, as the woman stood with her basket once more upon her back.
“Humph!” exclaimed the old woman, as she thrust the penny in her pocket, and then hesitated as to where she should place the letter.
While she was considering, the little window was opened and Uncle Luke’s head appeared.
“Mind you don’t lose that letter.”
“Never you fear about that,” said the old woman; and as if from a bright inspiration she pitched it over her head into her basket, and then trudged away.
“She’ll lose that letter as sure as fate,” grunted Uncle Luke. “Well, there’s nothing in it to mind. Now I suppose I can have a little peace, and—who’s this?”
He leaned a little farther out of his window, so as to bring a curve of the cliff path well into view.