Jenny gave him a push. "What ails them both to tell things now," thought she, "just at this present moment, and never before?"
Well, the shop was closed, the clerks had their tea, the boxes were brought in and the money counted; Archy Campbell put all in the strong box and disappeared. Jenny Hart,—a thing of late years, quite unusual, set herself down in a chair, and seemed as if she were going to spend the evening in the little back room.
"I have something to say to you my good kind friends," said she at last, "something that I fear will give you pain; and I have also a favour to beg of you, and this I know you will have pleasure in granting."
"Tell us all in the morning, dear Jenny Hart," said Mrs. Martin Barton, "for I am so sleepy and tired, that I cannot even listen."
"Just stop one moment," said she, as Mrs. Martin Barton was pulling her husband by the sleeve to go, she having the candlestick in her hand.
"You are going with us to Camperdown to-morrow," said he, "and you can come in our carriage, and tell us all about it. Poor thing, see how tired she is;" and he looked down, and saw Mrs. Martin Barton on one foot.
"Going with you," said Jenny Hart, her lip quivering, "yes, just for to-morrow; but you'll see then—you'll see. But go to bed, for I fear that what I have to say, will rob you of sleep."
"Oh, no," said Martin Barton, "nothing can keep two such tired souls awake, so say out and have done with it. You see that even poor tired Letty is broad awake, has let go my sleeve, and has put down the candlestick."
"Well, to be sure," said Mrs. Martin Barton, "a change has come over you. I have not heard you call me Letty this many a day. Speak out Jenny Hart."
