He looked on for a time, as the Jew filled her little basket with such scraps as she was used to buy; but, his merry vein coming on again, he was obliged to turn round to the window once more, and lean his arms on the blind.
“There, my Cinderella dear,” said the old man in a whisper, and with a worn-out look, “the basket’s full now. Bless you! And get you gone!”
“Don’t call me your Cinderella dear,” returned Miss Wren. “O you cruel godmother!”
She shook that emphatic little forefinger of hers in his face at parting, as earnestly and reproachfully as she had ever shaken it at her grim old child at home.
“You are not the godmother at all!” said she. “You are the Wolf in the Forest, the wicked Wolf! And if ever my dear Lizzie is sold and betrayed, I shall know who sold and betrayed her!”