I said he had gained something. So he thought; but despite of all that he had done, the woman seemed as unmoved as a marble statue—she took not the slightest notice of him, or his clock. This was strange. The pedler thought so. He had encountered adverse circumstances before—had doubled many a point of difficulty and perplexity, and forewarned and forearmed had expected to meet on this occasion, perhaps refusal; but he didn’t well know how to manage such sheer indifference. He would have tasked his wits—and he did task them; but somehow they seemed to forsake him at the precise moment, when he singularly needed their assistance. Moreover, in the very midst of his perplexity, the woman, who had taken a seat with her back turned toward him and his clock—a position which, under ordinary circumstances she would have avoided as a breach of civility—rose of a sudden, and taking some needle-work which she had in her hand, wended her way through an adjoining door into some other part of the house. It seemed as if she intended to carry her plan and purpose of marked indifference to the _ne plus ultra_; and the pedler would have given up all hope of success but for one circumstance—quite a trivial one—and yet it left a hook to hang a hope on. As the door closed, the pedler noticed that the woman more than half turned round, and did—he was quite sure of it—she did cast a momentary glance at the clock. And that look was voluntary. It cost her effort—it betrayed curiosity—the pedler didn’t quite despair. But his hopes were ere long again on the ebb. The woman seemed to have no disposition to return; at least she didn’t make her appearance; and with a good deal of reason the pedler thought that she did not intend to return. Whether this was her resolution I cannot say—quite probably she supposed that he had departed. Be this, however, as it may, the pedler was giving up, and had actually risen, and was in progress toward the clock, with a view to deport it once more to his wagon, when the door creaked, and the woman again entered. She seemed inclined to pause—and, perhaps, did pause—but, what was more to the pedler’s purpose, he fancied that she was about to hazard some remark—he hoped a commendation of the clock—at least a word as to its good appearance. But he mistook. She did, indeed, speak—a word or two only, however; but for the life of him, the pedler couldn’t decide whether the drift was for or against him. “I wish Mr. M. was at home,” said the woman, “he—” she paused.