Abbey, with manifest tokens of astonishment, took the diminutive document, and found it to run concisely thus:—

MISS JENNY WREN,

DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER.

Dolls attended at their own residences.

“Lud!” exclaimed Miss Potterson, staring. And dropped the card.

“We take the liberty of coming, my young companion and I, madam,” said Riah, “on behalf of Lizzie Hexam.”

Miss Potterson was stooping to loosen the bonnet-strings of the dolls’ dressmaker. She looked round rather angrily, and said: “Lizzie Hexam is a very proud young woman.”

“She would be so proud,” returned Riah, dexterously, “to stand well in your good opinion, that before she quitted London for—”

“For where, in the name of the Cape of Good Hope?” asked Miss Potterson, as though supposing her to have emigrated.

“For the country,” was the cautious answer, — “she made us promise to come and show you a paper, which she left in our hands for that special purpose. I am an unserviceable friend of hers, who began to know her after her departure from this neighbourhood. She has been for some time living with my young companion, and has been a helpful and a comfortable friend to her. Much needed, madam,” he added, in a lower voice. “Believe me; if you knew all, much needed.”

“I can believe that,” said Miss Abbey, with a softening glance at the little creature.

“And if it’s proud to have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts,” Miss Jenny struck in, flushed, “she is proud. And if it’s not, she is NOT.”

Her set purpose of contradicting Miss Abbey point blank, was so far from offending that dread authority, as to elicit a gracious smile. “You do right, child,” said Miss Abbey, “to speak well of those who deserve well of you.”

“Right or wrong,” muttered Miss Wren, inaudibly, with a visible hitch of her chin, “I mean to do it, and you may make up your mind to that, old lady.”

“Here is the paper, madam,” said the Jew, delivering into Miss Potterson’s hands the original document drawn up by Rokesmith, and signed by Riderhood. “Will you please to read it?”

“But first of all,” said Miss Abbey, “— did you ever taste shrub, child?”

Miss Wren shook her head.

“Should you like to?”

“Should if it’s good,” returned Miss Wren.

“You shall try. And, if you find it good, I’ll mix some for you with hot water. Put your poor little feet on the fender. It’s a cold, cold night, and the fog clings so.” As Miss Abbey helped her to turn her chair, her loosened bonnet dropped on the floor. “Why, what lovely hair!” cried Miss Abbey. “And enough to make wigs for all the dolls in the world. What a quantity!”