The Carrier put his hand into a pocket of the coat he had taken off; and brought out, carefully preserved in moss and paper, a tiny flower-pot.
'Dear, Caleb,' said the Carrier. 'Very dear at this season.'
'A small box,' replied the Carrier. 'Here you are!'
'With Care,' returned the Carrier, looking over his shoulder.
'Not he,' returned the Carrier. 'He's too busy, courting.'
He didn't look much like a bridegroom, as he stood in the Carrier's kitchen, with a twist in his dry face, and a screw in his body, and his hat jerked over the bridge of his nose, and his hands tucked down into the bottoms of his pockets, and his whole sarcastic ill- conditioned self peering out of one little corner of one little eye, like the concentrated essence of any number of ravens.
'Why, it's our wedding-day too,' exclaimed the Carrier.
A word with you,' murmured Tackleton, nudging the Carrier with his elbow, and taking him a little apart.
'Do you mean to say she don't, then?' asked the Carrier.
The Carrier had some faint idea of adding, 'dote upon you.' But, happening to meet the half-closed eye, as it twinkled upon him over the turned-up collar of the cape, which was within an ace of poking it out, he felt it such an unlikely part and parcel of anything to be doted on, that he substituted, 'that she don't believe it?'
But the Carrier, though slow to understand the full drift of his meaning, eyed him in such a serious manner, that he was obliged to be a little more explanatory.
The Carrier looked at her, and then at him, and then at her, and then at him again.