With an alacrity that seemed no less referable to the pepperer fact than to the supper fact, Bob obeyed, and his boots were heard descending towards the bed of the river.

“Lizzie Hexam, Lizzie Hexam,” then began Miss Potterson, “how often have I held out to you the opportunity of getting clear of your father, and doing well?”

“Very often, Miss.”

“Very often? Yes! And I might as well have spoken to the iron funnel of the strongest seagoing steamer that passes the Fellowship Porters.”

“No, Miss,” Lizzie pleaded; “because that would not be thankful, and I am.”

“I vow and declare I am half ashamed of myself for taking such an interest in you,” said Miss Abbey, pettishly, “for I don’t believe I should do it if you were not good-looking. Why ain’t you ugly?”