Upon her nearer approach, this relish of by-gone days was not
diminished; and when the cart stopped at the Nutmeg-Grater door, a
pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through Mr.
Britain's open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon
the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but
Clemency Newcome.
In fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy
comfortable-looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy
face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown
quite dimpled in her improved condition.
'You're late, Clemmy!' said Mr. Britain.
'Why, you see, Ben, I've had a deal to do!' she replied, looking
busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages
and baskets: 'eight, nine, ten - where's eleven? Oh! my basket's
eleven! It's all right. Put the horse up, Harry, and if he coughs
again give him a warm mash to-night. Eight, nine, ten. Why,
where's eleven? Oh! forgot, it's all right. How's the children,
Ben?'
'Hearty, Clemmy, hearty.'
'Bless their precious faces!' said Mrs. Britain, unbonneting her
own round countenance (for she and her husband were by this time in
the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. 'Give us a
kiss, old man!'
Mr. Britain promptly complied.
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