“Yes, come in and rest by the fire.”
“My name is Riah,” said the old man, with courteous action, “and my avocation is in London city. This, my young companion—”
“Stop a bit,” interposed Miss Wren. “I’ll give the lady my card.” She produced it from her pocket with an air, after struggling with the gigantic door-key which had got upon the top of it and kept it down. Miss 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