“I believe there is,” said Mary, surprised at the familiar manner in which he spoke of her mother and sister, who were present. “What is the price of old Russia per pound?” asked the hatter. “I believe, sir, that old Rushia is not for sale,” replied Mary indignantly. “Well, what do you ask for young Russia?” pursued the hatter. “Sir,” said Miss Rushia the younger, springing to her feet, “do you come here to insult defenceless females? If you do, sir, we will soon call our brother, who is in the garden, and he will punish you as you deserve.” “Ladies!” exclaimed the hatter, in astonishment, “what on earth have I done to offend you? I came here on a business matter. I want to buy some Russia. I was told you had old and young Russia in the house. Indeed, this young lady just stated such to be the fact, but she says the old Russia is not for sale. Now, if I can buy the young Russia I want to do so--but if that can’t be done, please to say so and I will trouble you no further.” “Mother, open the door and let this man go out; he is undoubtedly crazy,” said Miss Mary. “By thunder! I believe I shall be if I remain here long,” exclaimed the hatter, considerably excited. “I wonder if folks never do business in these parts, that you think a man is crazy if he attempts such a thing?” “Business! poor man!” said Mary soothingly, approaching the door. “I am not a poor man, madam,” replied the hatter. “My name is Walter Dibble; I carry on hatting extensively in Danbury; I came to Grassy Plains to buy fur, and have purchased some ‘beaver’ and ‘cony,’ and now it seems I am to be called ‘crazy’ and a ‘poor man,’ because I want to buy a little ‘Russia’ to make up my assortment.” The ladies began to open their eyes; they saw that Mr. Dibble was quite in earnest, and his explanation threw considerable light upon the subject. “Who sent you here?” asked sister Mary. “The clerk at the opposite store,” was the reply. “He is a wicked young fellow for making all this trouble,” said the old lady; “he has been doing this for a joke.” “A joke!” exclaimed Dibble, in surprise. “Have you no Russia, then?” “My name is Jerusha, and so is my daughter’s,” said Mrs. Wheeler, “and that, I suppose, is what he meant by telling you about old and young Rushia.” Mr. Dibble bolted through the door without another word and made directly for our store. “You young scamp!” said he as he entered; “what did you mean by sending me over there to buy Russia?” “I did not send you to _buy_ Rushia; I supposed you were either a bachelor or widower and wanted to _marry_ Rushia,” I replied, with a serious countenance. “You lie, you young dog, and you know it; but never mind, I’ll pay you off some day”; and taking his furs, he departed with less ill-humor than could have been expected under the circumstances.