“All the more important ones we do. At least for the last year or two we have. It was through a curious thing that happened, and we were nearly getting into trouble.” “You cannot be expected to show your books to strangers. I wanted to ask one little question. Moggs would have answered it with pleasure. But of course, as he is not at home—” “That need not make any difference, sir. Everything we do is plain and open. We don’t make a practice of showing our books. But if there is any particular entry you wish to inquire about, I shall be glad to help you. That is, if you can tell me the right date.” Again we were surprised at her alacrity. But after a few words, my uncle mentioned the 15th of last May, as the date of the occurrence he wished to be informed about. “Let us look at the day book,” she answered very promptly; “that will show everything we did then. It is in the next room. You shall see it in a minute.” While she was gone, my uncle leaned both hands upon his stick, and looked at me. “This is all gammon, Kit,” he whispered; “never mind; you watch her.” The old lady soon reappeared with the book, which was nothing but a calendar interleaved. “You see I have learned business since you knew me, Mr. Orchardson,” she said as she turned back to the date; “Moggs isn’t half such a scholar as I am; but George is a great deal better. Why, he can do decimals, and fractions, and all that. You don’t mind my turning back the edge of the leaf. Our prices, of course, are our own concern. We don’t seem to have done much on the day you speak of.” “Very little indeed. Much less than usual; though the day, if I remember right, was beautifully clear and sunny. There seem to have been only three boats out, and all of them up the river. Your husband spoke of coming down our way; but I suppose it was some other time. And of fetching a lady, who cried all the way.” “Then it must have been some other day. It could never have been on that day, you may be certain; or here it would be in black and white. But he never remembers when he did a thing; and he often mixes up two years together. A lady who cried? Why, let me see; I did hear something about it. Was she in deep mourning, Mr. Orchardson?” “Not in deep mourning at all; but a grey summer dress, and a short cloak, or jacket, or whatever you call it, braided in front and scolloped round the bottom. And a very beautiful face with blue eyes, like the colour of the sky in settled weather—oh, but she may have cried them out, so you must not go by that, so much. And she had a pretty way of putting up one hand—” “Shut up,” I said, for who could stand all this? And Mrs. Moggs looked at me, as if she was so sorry.