Part 13 (1/2)

”The very purest,” corroborated Rebecca.

”No acid in it?”

”Not a trace.”

”And yet a child could do the Monday was.h.i.+ng with it and use no force.”

”A babe,” corrected Rebecca

”Oh! a babe, eh? That child grows younger every year, instead of older--wise child!”

This was great good fortune, to find a customer who knew all the virtues of the article in advance. Rebecca dimpled more and more, and at her new friend's invitation sat down on a stool at his side near the edge of the porch. The beauties of the ornamental box which held the Rose-Red were disclosed, and the prices of both that and the Snow-White were unfolded. Presently she forgot all about her silent partner at the gate and was talking as if she had known this grand personage all her life.

”I'm keeping house to-day, but I don't live here,” explained the delightful gentleman. ”I'm just on a visit to my aunt, who has gone to Portland. I used to be here as a boy and I am very fond of the spot.”

”I don't think anything takes the place of the farm where one lived when one was a child,” observed Rebecca, nearly bursting with pride at having at last successfully used the indefinite p.r.o.noun in general conversation.

The man darted a look at her and put down his ear of corn. ”So you consider your childhood a thing of the past, do you, young lady?”

”I can still remember it,” answered Rebecca gravely, ”though it seems a long time ago.”

”I can remember mine well enough, and a particularly unpleasant one it was,” said the stranger.

”So was mine,” sighed Rebecca. ”What was your worst trouble?”

”Lack of food and clothes princ.i.p.ally.”

”Oh!” exclaimed Rebecca sympathetically,--”mine was no shoes and too many babies and not enough books. But you're all right and happy now, aren't you?” she asked doubtfully, for though he looked handsome, well-fed, and prosperous, any child could see that his eyes were tired and his mouth was sad when he was not speaking.

”I'm doing pretty well, thank you,” said the man, with a delightful smile. ”Now tell me, how much soap ought I to buy to-day?”

”How much has your aunt on hand now?” suggested the very modest and inexperienced agent; ”and how much would she need?”

”Oh, I don't know about that; soap keeps, doesn't it?”

”I'm not certain,” said Rebecca conscientiously, ”but I'll look in the circular--it's sure to tell;” and she drew the doc.u.ment from her pocket.

”What are you going to do with the magnificent profits you get from this business?”

”We are not selling for our own benefit,” said Rebecca confidentially.

”My friend who is holding the horse at the gate is the daughter of a very rich blacksmith, and doesn't need any money. I am poor, but I live with my aunts in a brick house, and of course they wouldn't like me to be a peddler. We are trying to get a premium for some friends of ours.”

Rebecca had never thought of alluding to the circ.u.mstances with her previous customers, but unexpectedly she found herself describing Mr.

Simpson, Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family; their poverty, their joyless life, and their abject need of a banquet lamp to brighten their existence.

”You needn't argue that point,” laughed the man, as he stood up to get a glimpse of the ”rich blacksmith's daughter” at the gate. ”I can see that they ought to have it if they want it, and especially if you want them to have it. I've known what it was myself to do without a banquet lamp. Now give me the circular, and let's do some figuring. How much do the Simpsons lack at this moment?”

”If they sell two hundred more cakes this month and next, they can have the lamp by Christmas,” Rebecca answered, ”and they can get a shade by summer time; but I'm afraid I can't help very much after to-day, because my aunt Miranda may not like to have me.”