this size
cost?"

Teuzer felt moved with compassion, "I have a few in the warehouse," he
answered, "but they are three times as dear as the common ones."

He went to look for one to make a present to the little girl, but on his
return, chancing to glance into her apron, he saw a little paper parcel.
"What have you there," he asked, "coffee or sugar?"

The little girl hesitated a moment. She was almost afraid to tell him
what she had in her apron. She thought he might possibly suspect that
she had been taking something which did not belong to her. Still, she
hesitated but a moment. She felt that she was honest, and she saw no
good reason why he should doubt her honesty. So she said,

"It is seed for our canary, our pretty Jacot. He is a dear little
creature, and he has had nothing to eat for a long time. How glad he
will be to get it."

"Oh, seed for a bird," said Teuzer, slowly; and putting down the jar he
was about to give her, he returned to his work, saying to himself, "if
you can afford to keep a bird you can pay me for my goods. Yes, yes,
people are often _so_ poor, _so_ poor, and when one comes to
inquire, they keep dogs, cats, or birds; and yet they will ask for
alms."

So the little girl had to go away without the jar; however, she returned
at the end of four days for her cup. The crack could scarcely be
perceived, and Teuzer asked sixpence for mending it. The little girl
searched in her pocket, without being able to find more than four-pence.

"It wants two-pence," said she, timidly, and looking beseechingly at the
potter, who replied, dryly, "I see: well, you will bring it to me on the
first opportunity," he then gave her the cup, and she slipped away quite
humbled.

"Now I have got rid of her," said Teuzer, to his men, "we shall see no
more of her here."

But to his surprise, she returned in two days bringing the two-pence.

"It is well," said he to her, "it is well to be so honest, had you not
returned, I knew neither where you lived, nor your name. Who are your
parents?"

"My father is dead, he was a painter, we live at No. 47 South Lane, and
my name is Madelaine Tube."

"Your father was a painter, and perhaps you can paint also, and better
too, than my apprentice that you see there with his great mouth open,
instead of painting his plates?"

The boy, looking quite frightened, took up his pencil and became red as
fire, while Madelaine examined his work.

"Come here, Madelaine," said Teuz