she handed them to the one whose business it was to take them, with a nod or a shake of the head, if good, or bad, for she was as wise as a serpent about bank notes—and in what was she not wise?
Every body that went to the shop took a good look at Jenny Hart, but no one took the least liberty with her; there she stood helping the customers, watching Hosea Bringle, curbing Ira Elkado, keeping Martin Barton from prosing, and relieving Mrs. Martin Barton from the most of her labours. The worthy couple had now been married eight years, and had but two children, twin girls, now in their seventh year, and it was odd enough to see how they were brought up; in fact, if it had not been for Jenny Hart they would not have been brought up at all. The shop was opened at daylight winter and summer; Jenny Hart was the first in it, and the last to leave it; every thing, as they said, went through her mouth and through her hands; neither Martin Barton nor his wife had the least concern in the world, for Jenny Hart ordered the marketing too; and as the girl brought the market basket through the long shop, the little body would whisk from behind the counter, lift up the cover, and satisfy herself that all was as she ordered. Then she hired the cook, and nurse, and maid of all work, and little Betty the waiter was of her choosing.
"Mrs. Martin Barton, what a noise those children make,"—said Mr. Martin Barton; "you must tell Jenny Hart that we shall have to build a room back of the parlour, and let them range about there, for their play is as noisy as their cries."
Jenny Hart had just returned from quieting them, and a lady who was buying some German worsted asked Mrs. Martin Barton how old the little girls were.
"Let me see—how old are the two twins?"—for she always called them the two twins, just as if they were speaking of two candles, or two pinches
