Book Two The Woman - Chapter 13 A Pedler in Arcadia

The cottage, as I have said, was entirely hidden from the chance
observer by reason of the foliage: ash, alder, and bramble
flourished luxuriantly, growing very thick and high, with here
and there a great tree; but, upon one side, there was a little
grassy glade, or clearing rather, some ten yards square, and it
was towards this that my eyes were directed as I reseated myself
upon the settle beside the door, and waited the coming of the
unknown.

Though the shadows were too deep for my eyes to serve me, yet I
could follow the newcomer's approach quite easily by the sound he
made; indeed, I was particularly struck by the prodigious
rustling of leaves. Whoever it was must be big and bulky, I
thought, and clad, probably, in a long, trailing garment.

All at once I knew I was observed, for the sounds ceased, and I
heard nothing save the distant bark of a dog and the ripple of
the brook near by.

I remained there for, maybe, a full minute, very still, only my
fists clenched themselves as I sat listening and waiting--and
that minute was an hour.

"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?"

The relief was so sudden and intense that I had much ado to keep
from laughing outright.

"You won't be wantin' ever a broom, now?" inquired the voice
again.

"No," I answered, "nor yet a fine leather belt with a steel
buckle made in Brummagem as ever was."