children above were coming down through the ceiling, and the roasting leg of mutton below were coming up through the floor—listened to Mrs. Boffin’s statement of her want of an orphan.
“I think,” said Mr. Milvey, “that you have never had a child of your own, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin?”
Never.
“But, like the Kings and Queens in the fairy tales, I suppose you have wished for one?”
In a general way, yes.
Mr. Milvey smiled again, as he remarked to himself “Those kings and queens were always wishing for children.” It occurring to him, perhaps, that if they had been curates, their wishes might have tended in the opposite direction.
“I think,” he pursued, “we had better take Mrs. Milvey into our council. She is indispensable to me. If you please, I’ll call her.”
So, Mr. Milvey called, “Margaretta, my dear!” and Mrs. Milvey came down. A pretty, bright little woman, something worn by anxiety, who had repressed many pretty tastes and bright fancies, and substituted in their stead, schools, soup, flannel, coals, and all the weekday cares and Sunday coughs of a large population, young and old. As gallantly had Mr. Milvey repressed much in himself that naturally belonged to his old studies and old fellow-students, and taken up among the poor and their children with the hard crumbs of life.
“ Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, my dear, whose good fortune you have heard of.”
Mrs. Milvey, with the most unaffected grace in the world, congratulated them, and was glad to see them. Yet her engaging face,