In the ordinary course of things Joseph would have taken the shortest cut to his patron's house, but to-day neither the weight of the barrow-load, which was considerable, nor Joseph's objection to labor, which was strongly rooted, could prevent him from taking the lengthier route, which lay along the village main street, and therefore took him where he had most chance of being observed. He made but slow progress, being constantly stopped by his admirers, and making a practice of sitting down outside any house the doors of which happened to be closed, and there waiting to be observed. Despite the lingering character of his journey he had already passed the last house but one--Miss Blythe's cottage--and was forecasting in the dim twilight of his mind the impression he would make upon its inmate, when the little old maid herself went by without a glance. “Arternoon, mum,” said Joseph, setting down the wheelbarrow, and spitting upon his hands to show how little he was conscious of the glory of his own appearance. “Good-afternoon,” said the old maid. “Ah! Joseph Beaker?” To Joseph's great disappointment she took no notice of his attire, but her eye happening to alight upon the books, she approached and turned one of them over. Poor Joseph was not accustomed to read the signs of emotion, or he might have noticed that the hand that turned the leaves trembled curiously. “What are these?” she asked. “Where are you taking them?” “These be Mr. Ezra Gold's music-books,” he answered. “He's gi'en 'em to his nevew, and I'm a-wheelin' of 'em home for him. Look here--see what his lordship's gi'en to me.” But Miss Blythe was busily taking book after book, and was turning over the leaves as if she sought for something. Her hands were trembling more and more, and even Joseph thought it odd that so precise and neat a personage should have let her parasol tumble and lie unregarded in the dust. “Wheel them to my house, Joseph Beaker,” she said at last, with a covert eagerness. “I want to look at them; I should like to look at them.” “My orders was to wheel 'em straight home,” returned Joseph. “I worn't told to let nobody handle 'em, but it stands to rayson as they hadn't ought to be handled.” “Wheel them to my door,” said the little old maid, stooping for her fallen sunshade. “I will give you sixpence.” “That's another matter,” said Joseph, sagely. “If a lady wants to look at 'em theer can't be nothin' again that, I _should_ think.”