tin stew-pans and dippers, and a host of other things.
“We won’t find anything here that we want,” muttered Chub at the door.
As the door swung open there was a distant tinkling of a bell. The store was empty when they entered, empty and dim and cool after the sunny road; but in response to the summons of the bell a little woman appeared at the back, entering apparently from the ell. She was one of the tiniest women they had ever seen, and as she hurried toward them she tied together the strings of a quaint little black bonnet.
“How do you do,” said Harry. “We want to buy an iron kettle if you have one.”
“An iron kettle,” mused the little woman, taking her chin in her hand and looking anxiously about her. “Did you want a very large one?”
She seemed to be about fifty years of age, with a thin comely face and a pleasant voice. Her expression, however, was so troubled and excited that Chub wondered, and Harry hurriedly assured her that just a medium-sized one would do and that if she didn’t have it it didn’t really matter one bit.
