When the descent was ended, there was yet the long narrow street before them, bending and swerving from the straight line, as it followed the course of the river.

The girls felt as if they should never come to the market-place, which was situated at the crossing of Bridge Street and High Street.

There the old stone cross was raised by the monks long ago; now worn and mutilated, no one esteemed it as a holy symbol, but only as the Butter Cross, where market-women clustered on Wednesday, and whence the town crier made all his proclamations of household sales, things lost or found, beginning with 'Oh! yes, oh! yes, oh! yes!' and ending with 'God bless the king and the lord of this manor,' and a very brisk 'Amen,' before he went on his way and took off the livery-coat, the colours of which marked him as a servant of the Burnabys, the family who held manorial rights over Monkshaven.
Of course the much frequented space surrounding the Butter Cross was the favourite centre for shops; and on this day, a fine market day, just when good housewives begin to look over their winter store of blankets and flannels, and discover their needs betimes, these shops ought to have had plenty of customers.

But they were empty and of even quieter aspect than their every-day wont.

The three-legged creepie-stools that were hired out at a penny an hour to such market-women as came too late to find room on the steps were unoccupied; knocked over here and there, as if people had passed by in haste.
Molly took in all at a glance, and interpreted the signs, though she had no time to explain their meaning, and her consequent course of action, to Sylvia, but darted into a corner shop.
'T' whalers is coming home! There's one lying outside t' bar!' This was put in the form of an assertion; but the tone was that of eager cross-questioning.
'Ay!' said a lame man, mending fishing-nets behind a rough deal counter.