"I should like a few things, Mr. Searle," said the young girl, speaking in a decidedly un-English although sweet, clear voice, "but I must tell you first it will have to be on credit—for just a little longer. I am sure we shall soon be able to pay you."
Mr. Searle's face was puckered into doubtful lines by this request. "Well, it's three weeks now," he said, slowly. "It's not usual, miss—"
"I know—I know," said the girl, eagerly, and looking at him with such a strained, wistful expression that Searle's heart melted. "I know, and I shall very soon have something—"
"Well, then, we'll let it go," said Searle, with real good-humor; and he busied himself supplying his customer's modest wants—half a pound of tea, a pound of sugar, some dried herrings, and a few candles.
"There," he said, placing the parcels in her hands. "I hope your mother is better, miss," he added, kindly.
The girl's eyes were full of sudden tears. "A little, thank you, Mr. Searle," she said; and then, holding her small parcels carefully, she hurried away, disappearing in the wintry dusk, while Mr. Searle called out to his wife:
"That's the American young lady again. Hanged if I can understand it. They're high-born, I'm sure; but wot's keeping them starving here in Nunsford is wot I can't tell."
"And you've give more credit?" said the sharp voice of his wife, as that lady's thin figure appeared in the doorway of the shop parlor. "Well, Searle, you are easy took in."
"Never mind, Sairey," answered Searle. "I couldn't look at that child's white face, and let her go 'ungry."
Mrs. Searle slammed the parlor door expressively, while her husband turned to watch the arrival of some more distinguished customers.