Again Gaunt felt a touch of uneasiness but shrugged his shoulders, as his way was, and thought no more of it. If he had been bred nearer to the Border, he would have said that Peggy o’ Mathewson’s was fey; as it was, he wondered that he had played yes-and-no with this girl. Her beauty, her high spirits, the disregard she showed for all admiration but his own, were pleasant to the man. For months he had been playing with his promise to Cilla of the Good Intent that he would marry Peggy. Well, who knew what might happen on this fine day in Linsall? “Peggy,” he said, as they threaded their way across the green, “you need a string of corals round your neck, to set off all the bonnie rest o’ you. I saw a necklace as we came past the far booth yonder.” And a wonderful booth it was, this wooden counter set on trestles, with a span of canvas overhead to keep sun or rain away. There were toys on it, and flat-irons, and housewives’ “find-alls;” there were wooden pipes and clay pipes, and snuff boxes. Betrothal rings, and wedding rings, and teething rings, lay neighbours to packets of simples warranted to remedy many ailments. The whole sum of life--its hopes, its absurdities, its random search after pleasure or after ease from pain--seemed to lie within the narrow confines of the booth. Gaunt took down one of the coral necklaces, and the woman standing behind the counter gave the pair of them a keen glance. “How much?” asked Gaunt. The woman’s thoughts were rapid. Were they brother and sister? No! It would have been sixpence in that case. Had he just met with the girl, and was he playing with a fancy? She thought not. That would have meant a shilling. Were they newly-pledged to each other? “Half a crown,” said the woman quietly. “They’re the best coral money can buy, and I can only sell ’em so cheap as that because--” “Oh, yes,” put in Gaunt drily. “Here’s the money. Now, Peggy, let me fasten it on for you--there! I told you ’twas all that was needed to set off the rest o’ you.” Peggy felt a touch on her arm, and turned to find a plump rascal, with a pedlar’s tray in front of him. His face, a dusky red at all times--what between weather outside inn-walls and warmer cheer within them--was a deeper colour than its wont this morning, though his eyes were quick and roguish, and his spirits gay as ever. “Ah, now, Peggy o’ Mathewson’s, come away from the booth,” he said. “Mother Lambert there has to pay for her stall, and the keep of a horse to drag it about fro’ place to place. Stands to reason her wares are dear to buy. Now, Pedlar Joe is his own pony--carries his booth in front of him, i’ a manner o’ speaking--and can afford to sell things cheap.” “Ay,” put in Mother Lambert tartly from behind her booth, “cheap to buy, and dear when ye’ve got ’em. We all know _your_ wares, Pedlar Joe.”