the burnt lands along the sequestered roads back among the hills. But they soon discovered that canvassing for subscriptions was not all fun—though, to be sure, as Ilse said, they found plenty of human nature for their essays.
There was the old man who said “Humph” at the end of every remark Emily made. When finally asked for a subscription he gruffly said “No.”
“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘Humph’ this time,” said Emily. “It was getting monotonous.”
The old fellow stared—then chuckled.
“Are ye any relation to the proud Murrays? I worked at a place they call New Moon when I was young and one of the Murray gals—Elizabeth her name was—had a sort of high-and-lofty way o’ looking at ye, just like yours.”
“My mother was a Murray.”
“I was thinkin’ so—ye bear the stamp of the breed. Well, here’s two dollars an’ ye kin put my name down. I’d ruther see the special edition ’fore I subscribe. I don’t favour buying bearskins afore I see the bear. But it’s worth two dollars to see a proud Murray coming down to askin’ old Billy Scott fer a subscription.”
“Why didn’t you slay him with a glance?” asked Ilse as they walked away.
Emily was walking savagely, with her head held high and her eyes snapping.
“I’m out to get subscriptions, not to make widows. I didn’t expect it would be all plain sailing.”
There was another man who growled all the way through Emily’s explanations—and then, when she was primed for refusal, gave her five subscriptions.
“He likes to disappoint people,” she told Ilse, as they went down the lane. “He would rather disappoint them agreeably than not at all.”
One man swore volubly—“not at anything in particular, but just at large,” as Ilse said; and another old man was on the point of subscribing when his wife interfered.
