"Oh, I don't know about that; soap keeps, does n't it ? "
"I 'm not certain," said Rebecca conscientiously, "but I 'll look in the circular—it 's sure to tell;" and she drew the document from her pocket.
"What are you going to do with the magnificent profits you get from this business?"
"We are not selling for our own benefit," said Rebecca confidentially. "My friend who is holding the horse at the gate is the daughter of a very rich blacksmith, and does n't need any money. I am poor, but I live with my aunts in a brick house, and of course they would n't like me to be a peddler. We are trying to get a premium for some friends of ours."
Rebecca had never thought of alluding to the circumstances with her previous customers, but unexpectedly she found herself describing Mr. Simpson, Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family; their poverty, their joyless life, and their abject need of a banquet lamp to brighten their existence.
"You need n't argue that point," laughed the man, as he stood up to get a glimpse of the "rich blacksmith's daughter" at the gate. "I can see that they ought to have it if they want it, and especially if you want them to have it. I 've known what it was myself to do without a banquet lamp. Now give me the circular, and let 's do some figuring. How much do the Simpsons lack at this moment?"
