“If it’s any advantage to your charming godchild⁠—and oh, a precious godfather she has got!”⁠—replied Miss Wren, pricking at him in the air with her needle, “to be informed that the Court Dressmaker knows your tricks and your manners, you may tell her so by post, with my compliments.”

Miss Wren was busy at her work by candlelight, and Mr. Wrayburn, half amused and half vexed, and all idle and shiftless, stood by her bench looking on. Miss Wren’s troublesome child was in the corner in deep disgrace, and exhibiting great wretchedness in the shivering stage of prostration from drink.

“Ugh, you disgraceful boy!” exclaimed Miss Wren, attracted by the sound of his chattering teeth, “I wish they’d all drop down your throat and play at dice in your stomach! Boh, wicked child! Bee-baa, black sheep!”

On her accompanying each of these reproaches with a threatening stamp of the foot, the wretched creature protested with a whine.