Still they toiled on; the years passed—flew, it seemed; and they grew richer and richer, until even Jenny thought they had enough; and most judiciously had she placed the money. She had chosen her counsellor well; honest Mr. Norton, the broker; he never deceived her for a moment; and, as to herself, even Archy Campbell did not covet her hand more than did Mr. Norton. He would have taken her without a cent; indeed he did not know that she had a penny in the world; but Jenny Hart was as honest as himself; and she settled it in her mind, long ago, that she could never be his wife. He was true to her, however—dear Jenny Hart, who would not be true to her? “Take this parcel up to Mrs. Armstrong, Betty,” said Jenny Hart, one fine morning in May, “and say, that if it suits she can keep the whole dozen.” “Twelve for a shilling, sir; thank you.” “Knitting needles?” “Yes, the best of steel; Alfred Gray, some of the best steel knitting needles—A newspaper from Mr. Norton, my boy?—thank you; stop, here is a pair of gloves for you; now run home.—You have only measured off seven yards, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the lady asked for eight—Jasper Merry, make that dog go out—Your’s, madam, is it?”—“well, Jasper Merry, just put him outside of the door and shut it—Why did Mr. Norton send me the paper?—Oh, I see—The Camperdown property is for sale, Mrs. Martin Barton—Mr. Daly, your father wants you to buy it sadly. We rode out there yesterday afternoon; and, really, it is a place for a prince, let alone poor thread and needle people, like ourselves. It is very much improved since you were there, last fall, Mrs. Martin Barton; all the houses are finished; and now the gardens are all laid out, and the fences and the grounds; and it looks like a little settlement already. Four beautiful houses, all large and very roomy; and the river in front, too. I wonder what it will bring. It is to be sold separate or together; but I fear it is beyond our means. The property is to be sold on Monday next.” “I wonder how it came to be called Camperdown,” said Martin Barton. “I had a scapegrace of a cousin, called Camperdown Barton; but for him my old uncle Davies would have left me something handsome. Some people did say, that this Camperdown Barton forged a will in his own favour; but I could not believe it.” “Mr. Barton,” said a man, entering the shop—“Martin Barton, if you please, sir,” said Mr. Martin Barton. “Mr. Martin Barton,” said the man, smiling, “have you any white galloon?” “Yes.” “Alfred Gray, hand down that box of white galloon,” said Jenny Hart. “And where is this Camperdown Barton, now,” said Jenny Hart, when the man had bought the galloon, and was out of the shop. “I can hardly tell; but he was in the West Indies when I last heard of him. He married, and had two children, and”—