"There is no one there, and Sam is sleeping soundly in the room beyond,"
she said, as she returned to her father's side, and taking her place by
him passed her arm around him and supported and reassured him, while he
told the story of that awful night, a story which the author will tell
in her own words rather than in those of the dying man, who introduced a
great deal of matter irrelevant to the case.
CHAPTER XII.
THE STORY.
Forty years or more before the night of which we write, there had come
to Allington a peddler, whose home was across the sea, in Carnarvon,
Wales. He was a little, cross eyed, red-haired, wiry man, with a blunt,
sharp way of speaking, but was very popular with the citizens of
Allington, to whom he sold such small articles as he could conveniently
carry in a bundle upon his back; needles, pins, thread, pencils,
matches, thimbles, cough lozengers, Brandreth's pills, handkerchiefs,
ribbons, combs, and sometimes Irish laces and Balbriggans formed a part
of his heterogeneous stock, which was varied from time to time to suit
the season, or the wants of his customers.
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