bank notes, old nails, bits of tobacco, fragments of wool, and a number of sovereigns, but he could not find either silver or copper coin. He looked up to the corner of the ceiling, he jerked round, plunged again in the recesses of his numerous pockets, turned the contents from one hand to the other, and endeavoured by a still closer scrutiny to detect the coin that was wanted. It was without success, and he put down a sovereign.
“I cannot give you change. You may pay it when next you pass, and these (giving him her address cards), will remind you where to call, and send your friends.”
On this they parted.
Within an hour afterwards he returned in great haste, bounced into the shop, and shouted out:—“I’ve lost a fifty pund note. It’s tumbled out here. Ha’ ye seen it?”
Miss Moore had not seen it, had not stirred from her seat, and had had no other customer in the shop, therefore if it had been left there, it would easily be found. They searched for it, but it was not to be found. During the search the stranger, without being aware of what he was doing, continued to fire off sharp expressions, which seemed to hiss, crackle, and threaten like crackers, and all of them most uncomplimentary to the establishment. He jumped from side to side, peered over the counter, squeezed himself behind it, tossed the goods and boxes about without consideration, and at last desisted, less from conviction than from weariness. “It mun,” said he, “ha’ tumbled out here. I couldn’t ha’ hed my pocket picked, ’cause t’ rest are here. She may ha’ gotten it,” (giving a piercing glance towards Julia,) “but she looks honest, and she’s Yorkshire, and a neighbour like. Humph! maybe she’s like her father. Bad lot. I shouldn’t wonder. One has run away. A precious bad lot. I mun’nt stop, or I shall tell her she has stolen it, and it’s no use to her when stopped. All t’ ould woman’s fault. I wish t’button had been in t’goit. Nance shall pay for it; she shan’t hear t’ last on it, sending me out wi’ such a shirt; she’s doited; but when milk’s spilt it’s no use greeting, but tak’ t’ bucket and fin’ another cow. But t’ lass may be honest, she looks right cast down. Trade’s bad. I’ll ha’ my revenge on t’ old woman, if this lass knows t’ old Bradford cut.”
He then gave a side glance to Julia, cocking his head over his shoulder, and bawled out, “It can’t be fun’. It’s a sad loss. It’ll tak’ some spinning for, but it won’t quite ruin me,” here he chuckled, and gave a loud clack with his tongue, as if highly enjoying the joke of such a loss operating towards his ruin, and then continued, “Never heed it, I’ve gotten t’ number, and I’ll stop it. Do ye think ye could mak’ shirts like this,” pulling back his coat and showing the breast of his coarse but well bleached shirt.
“Yes, I could. All linen. Knaresbro’ cloth—how many do you want.”
“Oh, mak’ a dozen, lass; and,” continued he, springing to the door, “let ’em be ready in a month or two. Put stuff enow in ’em.”
“But, sir, I must have some measure!”
He looked jerkingly up in the old sparrow way, twitched his mouth very tightly and rapidly, as if trying to prevent some unwished-for disclosure, bounced to the door, and seemed to be intent on measuring the floor as he plumped out the words—“I knew thy father—a bad lot—spent all t’wife’s brass. No matter for that; what fit him fits me; charge low; but not less than thou can afford, and t’brass is as safe as the bank.” He then bolted out of the shop, and when safely in the street shook his head and muttered, “What an ould fool—I didn’t mean to tell her that—now she’ll be wondering who I am—she’ll look out for th’ advertisement, and be hanging about me. I wont ha’ her. She’s her father’s chick. Bad lot—no gumption about one of ’em. Couldn’t keep brass when others addled it. Lost fifty pund and fun’ a relation. The findings’s war nor t’loising.”
Her eccentric customer left Julia in a state of great perplexity. His reference to her father—the tones of his voice—his knowledge that she had a sister, and of the name of that sister, for, on reflection, Julia was certain that he was the first to refer to Susan—all showed that he had lived in the neighbourhood of her birthplace, and might be even more nearly related to her. She determined that she would not think about these things, until she was at home. She could not afford to indulge in day-dreams; she must not let her thoughts wander from the business before her, and the work she had to do. She sat industriously plying her needle, with longing lookings for the purchasers who would not come, listening to the tide of traffic which rolled so noisily and unceasingly past her door; but no part of which, not so much as the dashing of loose spray, reached the little nook where she sat, thirsting for employment, for gain, not covetously, nor avariciously, but only for that needful gain which might enable her to live, might obtain the sustenance which would let her continue to labour. Day sank until it was lost in the obscurity of the foggy evening, which gradually cut off from her the hope of counting this day among her days of profit, and she welcomed with a feeling of relief the hour of closing, when Miss Manks called to accompany her home.
Miss Manks and Miss Moore were friends of long standing. They had formerly been fellow assistants in the same work-rooms, and they were now fellow-lodgers, Miss Manks being, as she observed, not quite an orphan, but something worse, as her father was living, but had by his irregular life, and by the companions whom he forced upon his daughter, and one of whom he installed in his house, not only rendered home disagreeable to her, but also justified her in leaving it. This took place immediately after Susan went away, when Julia feeling the want of some friendly voice, and the presence of some familiar face to enliven her solitary lodging, offered to share it with Miss Manks, who gladly accepted a proposal which secured her a home at less cost than she could have expected. She was several years younger than Julia, and was a good natured, confiding girl, with a strong tendency to “hero-worship.” A phrenologist would have said that there was a morbid development in her head of the organ of veneration. She had little else in character; her reasoning powers were small and