The boy knocked at a door, and the door promptly opened with a spring and a click. A parlour door within a small entry stood open, and disclosed a child⁠—a dwarf⁠—a girl⁠—a something⁠—sitting on a little low old-fashioned armchair, which had a kind of little working bench before it.

“I can’t get up,” said the child, “because my back’s bad, and my legs are queer. But I’m the person of the house.”

“Who else is at home?” asked Charley Hexam, staring.

“Nobody’s at home at present,” returned the child, with a glib assertion of her dignity, “except the person of the house. What did you want, young man?”

“I wanted to see my sister.”

“Many young men have sisters,” returned the child. “Give me your name, young man?”