“Bless you, godmother,” said Miss Wren, “I have to scud about town at all hours. If it was only sitting at my bench, cutting out and sewing, it would be comparatively easy work; but it’s the trying-on by the great ladies that takes it out of me.”

“How, the trying-on?” asked Riah.

“What a mooney godmother you are, after all!” returned Miss Wren. “Look here. There’s a Drawing Room, or a grand day in the Park, or a Show, or a Fête, or what you like. Very well. I squeeze among the crowd, and I look about me. When I see a great lady very suitable for my business, I say ‘You’ll do, my dear!’ and I take particular notice of her, and run home and cut her out and baste her. Then another day, I come scudding back again to try on, and then I take particular notice of her again. Sometimes she plainly seems to say, ‘How that little creature is staring!’ and sometimes likes it and sometimes don’t, but much more often yes than no. All the time I am only saying to myself, ‘I must hollow out a bit here; I must slope away there;’ and I am making a perfect slave of her, with making her try on my doll’s dress. Evening parties are severer work for me, because there’s only a doorway for a full view, and what with hobbling among the wheels of the carriages and the legs of the horses, I fully expect to be run over some night. However, there I have ’em, just the same. When they go bobbing into the hall from the carriage, and catch a glimpse of my little physiognomy poked out from behind a policeman’s cape in the rain, I dare say they think I am wondering and admiring with all my eyes and heart, but they little think they’re only working for my dolls! There was Lady Belinda Whitrose. I made her do double duty in one night. I said when she came out of the carriage, ‘You’ll do, my dear!’ and I ran straight home and cut her out and basted her. Back I came again, and waited behind the men that called the carriages. Very bad night too. At last, ‘Lady Belinda Whitrose’s carriage! Lady Belinda Whitrose coming down!’ And I made her try on — oh! and take pains about it too — before she got seated. That’s Lady Belinda hanging up by the waist, much too near the gas-light for a wax one, with her toes turned in.”

When they had plodded on for some time nigh the river, Riah asked the way to a certain tavern called the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters. Following the directions he received, they arrived, after two or three puzzled stoppagesfor consideration, and some uncertain looking about them, at the door of Miss Abbey Potterson’s dominions. A peep through the glass portion of the door revealed to them the glories of the bar, and Miss Abbey herself seated in state on her snug throne, reading the newspaper. To whom, with deference, they presented themselves.

Taking her eyes off her newspaper, and pausing with a suspended expression of countenance, as if she must finish the paragraph in hand before undertaking any other business whatever, Miss Abbey demanded, with some slight asperity: “Now then, what’s for you?”

“Could we see Miss Potterson?” asked the old man, uncovering his head.

“You not only could, but you can and you do,” replied the hostess.

“Might we speak with you, madam?”

By this time Miss Abbey’s eyes had possessed themselves of the small figure of Miss Jenny Wren. For the closer observation of which, Miss Abbey laid aside her newspaper, rose, and looked over the half- door of the bar. The crutch-stick seemed to entreat for its owner leave to come in and rest by the fire; so, Miss Abbey opened the half-door, and said, as though replying to the crutch-stick: “Yes, come in and rest by the fire.”

“My name is Riah,” said the old man, with courteous action, “and my avocation is in London city. This, my young companion—”

“Stop a bit,” interposed Miss Wren. “I’ll give the lady my card.” She produced it from her pocket with an air, after struggling with the gigantic door-key which had got upon the top of it and kept it down. Miss