Ellen saw it, and hoped he would ask her in
words, for she could not answer his _looks_ of curiosity — but
she was disappointed. As he reached the end of the piazza, and
gave his broom two or three knocks against the edge of the
boards to clear it of dust, he indulged himself with one good,
long, finishing look at Ellen, and then she saw he was going
to take himself and his broom into the house. So in despair
she ran up the two or three low steps of the piazza and
presented herself before him. He stopped short.
"Will you please to tell me, Sir," said poor Ellen, "if Miss
Emerson is here?"
"Miss Emerson?" said he — "what Miss Emerson?"
"I don't know, Sir — Miss Emerson that lives not far from
Thirlwall."
Eyeing Ellen from head to foot, the man then trailed his broom
into the house. Ellen followed him.
"Mr. Forbes!" said he — "Mr. Forbes! do you know anything of
Miss Emerson?"
"What Miss Emerson?" said another man, with a big red face and
a big round body, showing himself in a doorway which he nearly
filled.
"Miss Emerson that lives a little way out of town."
"Miss Fortune Emerson? — yes, I know her. What of her?"
"Has she been here to-day?"
"Here? what, in town? No — not as I've seen or heard. Why, who
wants her?"
"This little girl."
And the man with the broom stepping back, disclosed Ellen to
the view of the red-faced landlord.
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