“No, do not come down,” said the lady. “Let me come up beside you. I see the way.”
And she stepped up by means of the projecting stones of the wall, and threw herself down beside the quiet knitter.
“What are you making? Mittens? And what of? What sort of wool is this?”
“It is goats’ hair.”
“Tiresome work!” the lady observed. “Wool is bad enough; but these short lengths of hair! I should never have patience.”
The widow replied that she had time in these summer
evenings; and she was glad to take the chance of selling a few pairs when Macdonald went to the main, once or twice a year.
“How do they sell? What do you get for them?”
“I get oil to last me for some time.”