But now
and then they put on the masque of comedy.
Ruth Tole was behind the counter, sorting threads. She was a
maiden of middle life and severe countenance, of few and decisive
words. The door of the little shop was ajar, and near it a woman
sat knitting. She had a position favourable for eye and ear. She
could see all who passed, on either side of the way, and not a word
or move in the shop escaped her. In the sisterhood she bore the
familiar name of Lize. She had been talking about that old case of
Riley Brooke and the Widow Glover.
"Looks to me," said she, thoughtfully, as she tickled her scalp
with a knitting-needle, "that she took the kinks out o' him. He's
a good deal more respectable."
"Like a panther with his teeth pulled," said a woman who stood by
the counter, buying a spool of thread. "Ain't you heard how they
made up?"
"Land sakes, no!" said the sister Lize, hurriedly finishing a
stitch and then halting her fingers to pull the yarn.
The shopkeeper began rolling ribbons with a look of indifference.
She never took part in the gossip and, although she loved to hear
it, had, mostly, the air of one without ears.
"Well, that old tinker gave 'em both a good talking to," said the
customer.
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