The peddler’s quick eye never left her hands; and when he heard the tiny click of something falling, an intelligent flash shot from him to the obnoxious green glasses.

“I want a thimble,” said Mrs. Sharpe, with phlegm.  “I’ve lost mine.  How much do you ask for these here, mister?”

“Three cents apiece.”

Susan paid down the three cents, pocketed the brass thimble, and slowly rose.

“No more to sell to-day,” said the peddler, bundling up with celerity.  “So you won’t take the brown, ma’am?  Sorry we can’t make a trade; but I’ll run up again to-morrow with a new lot, and I’ve no doubt we can strike a bargain.  Good-morning, ladies.”

With which Mr. Peddler shouldered his pack and trudged away, singing.  Old Peter let him out, and locked the gate after, and watched him out of sight.  The peddler ceased his song the moment he was out of hearing, struck into the woods the instant he was out of sight, and flinging his pack on the grass, tore it open.

He had not long to search—­Mrs. Sharpe’s tarnished old thimble was conspicuous enough among his glistening new ones.  He fished it up, poked out the crumpled bit of paper, and slowly read it through.  When read, he tore it into fifty morsels, and scattered them in a white shower all about.  Then, with knitted brows and compressed lips, he sat and thought and thought for a full hour.

Meanwhile, matters went on smoothly behind him.  Mrs. Sharpe, having finished the washing, and quite won the hearts of the two old women by her workmanlike manner, prepared her patient’s dinner, and brought it up.

On this occasion Mrs. Oleander undertook to accompany her.  They found that refractory patient at her usual post—­the window—­gazing with dreamy, empty eyes over the ceaseless sea.

Susan Sharpe was strictly on her guard; her austere face never unbent, and Mollie took her cue once more.

“Here’s your dinner miss,” she said, briefly; “is there anything I can do for you?”

“Nothing,” replied Mollie, sullenly.  “Only leave me alone.  I never want to see either of your ugly old faces.”

She turned her back upon them as she spoke, and never turned round until they had quitted the room.

“She’s a little imp, if there ever was a little imp yet,” said Mrs. Oleander, spitefully.  “Does she always treat you like that?”

“Worse, mostly,” said the imperturbable Susan; “but, la!  I don’t mind; I’m used to ’em.”

“Do you think she’ll ever get better?”

“I think it’s very likely, ma’am,” responded Mrs. Sharpe.  “Your cross ones are always the likeliest.  But, of course, I can’t say.”

All that long afternoon Mollie was left quite alone.  Mrs. Sharpe never came near her.  This indifference on the part of the nurse quite disarmed Mrs. Oleander’s suspicions.  If she had any wish to carry favor with her son’s patient, or help her to escape, surely she would not sit there in the kitchen, hemming her new silk handkerchief, all the while.  That was what Susan did, however, and the weary, weary hours of the warm, sunny day wore blankly on the poor, lone Mollie.