Mr. Harris had a cosy little room opening out of the shop, and here he usually sat during eight hours of every day in case a customer should come and require books, papers, or stationery. “I am for the eight-hour movement,” he used to say, with a significant smile at Margaret. “Eight hours are long enough for any man to work.” And she always agreed with him. “Especially when it is such arduous work as yours, Graf, requiring such close attention to detail, so exhausting for the brain and the arms, as indeed all work is in these days of fierce competition. How much did you take over the counter yesterday—fourpence halfpenny?” “Oh, I had a good day! I sold a copy of Browning’s poems, and the purchaser appeared much pleased with it.” The purchaser in almost every case would be himself, for few Darentdalers bought books or read them, and those who did sent to London or ordered them through a bookseller in Scourby. But Margaret and her grandfather had much quiet fun over the shop, and were decidedly its best customers. Margaret loved the old man, and was as tender as a daughter could be toward him; and how much he cared for her all the years of her life had told. It was, nevertheless, difficult for her to broach the subject that was uppermost in her mind. “Has there been a great rush of customers to-day, Graf?” “Well, I have been quite busy enough for the greater part of the day. Newspapers have sold well; they are very interesting, for Parliament was last night discussing the question of adopting that new gun—a noiseless, smokeless weapon which can kill at the distance of a mile and fire three hundred shots in succession. Other nations are adopting it, and Christian England must not be behind. One good thing about it is that any number of armies could be annihilated in a day; so if the battles are fierce they will not be long.” “Dreadful! Surely they will never fight again now that killing is so easy and so certain?” “I don’t know; I hope not. I think not, if England would lead the way, as she ought, and would be always for peace.” “I am feeling very warlike this evening, Graf.” “Are you, Margaret? You are young to suffer from nervous irritability. Do you feel as if you want to bang something?” “Yes, I do.” “Go up the house and down the house and bang all the doors. No? You want something human? I am quite at your service, my dear—bang me! I am substantial enough for anything.” “Graf, you are generally young and frivolous when I want you to be staid and serious. Something has happened to me, and I need help and advice.” “Really and truly, my child?” “Yes; very really and truly, indeed. I have had an anonymous letter.” “Don’t read it, Margaret. I have had many such in my time, denouncing me as a sceptic and an atheist, and consigning me to the lowest regions. They don’t hurt you much when you are used to them. Put your letter in the fire unread, and forget all about it.”