head
should have been discovered by some miracle, brought to the sorrowing
widow, and set up in the garden in eternal remembrance of the dear
departed. This was the story in my mind, but as a matter of fact the
rude effigy was wrought by Mrs. Bruce's father for a ship to be called
the Sea Queen, but by some mischance, ship and figurehead never came
together, and the old wood-carver left it to his daughter, in lieu of
other property. It has not been wholly unproductive, Mrs. Bruce fancies,
for the casual passers-by, like those who came to scoff and remained
to pray, go into the shop to ask questions about the Sea Queen and buy
chops out of courtesy and gratitude.

. . . .

On our way to the bakery, which is a daily walk with us, we always
glance at a little cot in a grassy lane just off the fore street. In
one half of this humble dwelling Mrs. Davidson keeps a slender stock of
shop-worn articles,--pins, needles, threads, sealing-wax, pencils, and
sweeties for the children, all disposed attractively upon a single shelf
behind the window.

Across the passage, close to the other window, sits day after day an old
woman of eight-six summers who has lost her kinship with the present and
gone back to dwell for ever in the past. A small table stands in front
of her rush-bottomed chair, the old family Bible rests upon it, and in
front of the Bible are always four tiny dolls, with which the trembling
old fingers play from morning till night. They are cheap, common little
puppets, but she robes and disrobes them with tenderest care. They are
put to bed upon the Bible, take their walks along its time-worn pages,
are married on it, buried on it, and the direst punishment they ever
receive is to be removed from its sacred covers and temporarily hidden
beneath the dear old soul's black alpaca apron. She is quite happy with
her treasures on week-days; but on Sundays--alas and alas! the poor old
dame sits in her lonely chair with the furtive tears dropping on her
wrinkled cheeks, for it is a God-fearing household, and it is neither
lawful nor seemly to play with dolls on the Sawbath!

. . . .

Mrs. Nicolson is the presiding genius of the bakery, she is more--she
is the bakery itself. A Mr. Nicolson there is, and he is known to be the
baker, but he dwells in the regions below the shop and only issues at
rare intervals, beneath the friendly shelter of a huge tin tray filled
with scones and baps.

If yo