Chris Jennifer was riding into Battle that week, for the wind had backed into the southwest, and the snow had thawed in a day. And John Gore set forward to ride with Mr. Jennifer, Mrs. Winnie whispering to him that her man could carry a power of things, being accustomed to suffer all manner of commissions. For Barbara had nothing but the clothes she stood in, and was wearing a pair of Mrs. Winnie’s shoes when she went down the garden path to watch John Gore mount for Battle. Mrs. Jennifer was always taking her man by the coat-tails when these “young things” were about together. Poor Christopher had no peace in his own house, being ordered out of the way wherever he might go, and told that he was a blind booby for not keeping the corner of an eye open, and for not thrashing those lazy, gossiping rogues—his men—for loitering and hanging about the buildings. Yet Christopher took it all very patiently, going out to the stable to smoke his pipe and teach son William to make “jumping-jacks” and bird snares and pop-guns out of elder wood. Mr. Jennifer and John Gore came to Battle Town that day and pulled up outside Mr. Bannister’s shop, where Mill Street ran toward Mountjoy and The Mills. Chris Jennifer had business at the farrier’s and the grocer’s, so he left John Gore to his own affairs, promising to be back in half an hour in order to help load the baggage. John Gore called a boy to hold his horse, and went into Mr. Bannister’s shop with the grim air of an Englishman who is tempted to feel shy. A young woman came forward with ribbons in her cap, and a saucy, giggling look that seemed to rally the gentleman on his surroundings. John Gore had no use for her at all. He looked round the shop and saw no one else but a little old woman carding wool. “Is Mr. Bannister in?” The girl stared, and the old lady put down her wool. John Gore took off his hat to her. “May I see Mr. Bannister himself, madam?” “Titsy, go and see where the master is.” And Titsy went, with a flaunting fling of the shoulders, for the man had not taken off his hat to her. Mr. Bannister was a mild man in rusty brown. John Gore could see that he had just washed his hands and bustled into his Sunday wig, for he had put it on awry. He came forward with the walk of a man who suffered from chronic rheumatism about the spine, and he was wearing at least five pairs of stockings, to judge by his bulgy legs. John Gore persuaded him to the end of the counter next the door, not at all pleased to see that Titsy of the ribbons had come back into the shop and was listening with both her ears. “Good-day, sir. In what way may I serve you?” “I want some of these stuffs here, God knows what you call them, stuff for gowns and petticoats—and—and—things!”