Something sparkled down among the fair hair resting on the dark hair; and if it were not a star⁠—which it couldn’t be⁠—it was an eye; and if it were an eye, it was Jenny Wren’s eye, bright and watchful as the bird’s whose name she had taken.

“Why about Mr. Wrayburn?” Lizzie asked.

“For no better reason than because I’m in the humour. I wonder whether he’s rich!”

“No, not rich.”

“Poor?”

“I think so, for a gentleman.”

“Ah! To be sure! Yes, he’s a gentleman. Not of our sort; is he?” A shake of the head, a thoughtful shake of the head, and the answer, softly spoken, “Oh no, oh no!”