With a deferential lifting of his cap the pedlar again murmured his grateful thanks, and made his way out the way he had come in. Fanny waited to lock the yard gate after him, murmuring to herself: "That gate didn't ought to have been left open—it's just like that lazy boy Sam to think that now Britton's gone off with the horses he can do as he likes."
It was not until the furniture in the room had been moved about to her satisfaction that the housekeeper demanded to know the reason for Fanny's delay downstairs.
"It isn't cook's business to be waitin' about for you," she said sharply, "she's got her other duties to perform. What kept you?"
Then Fanny told what had caused the delay, and was aghast at the effect it produced upon her aunt.
"I wouldn't have had it happen just now for all my year's wages," the housekeeper exclaimed hotly. "What do we know about the man and his pack?"
"He looked so white and quiet-like, and so sad," pleaded her niece half tearfully.
"That's nothin' to us. I promised the master before he went away that I wouldn't let a strange foot pass over the doorway while he was away. And here you—a mere chit of a housemaid—go, without sayin', 'With your leave,' or, 'By your leave,' and let a dirty pedlar with his pack straight into the breakfast-room. He's sure to have scented the silver lyin' on the sideboard for cleanin' this afternoon. If I didn't think he'd gone a long way from here by this I would send you after him to tell him to take it away again."
Having delivered herself of this long, explosive speech, the housekeeper proceeded in the direction of the breakfast-room to review the pack, and Fanny and the cook followed in her wake.
"As I thought," she ejaculated, eyeing the pack from the doorway, "a dirty pedlar's smellin' pack." But the tone of her voice was mollified, for the pack looked innocent enough, although it was somewhat bulky and unwieldy in appearance.
Her niece took heart of grace from her tone, and murmured apologetically: