ith the family."

"The family?" echoed Bart, looking scared.

"In course--they will come, though it's early to be thinking of names
for 'em. I'll do the washing, Bart, and you'll take round the cart, so
don't you think things 'ull be otherwise."

"I don't want 'em to," said Bart, affectionately. "I always loved you,
Debby darling."

"Ah," said Miss Junk, luxuriously, "I've taught you to, in quite a
genteel way. What a scrubby little brat you were, Bart!"

"Yuss," said Mr. Tawsey, eating rapidly. "I saw myself to-day."

"In a looking-glarse?"

"Lor', Debby--no. But there wos a brat all rags and dirty face and sauce
as I was when you saw me fust. He come into the shop as bold as brass
and arsked fur a book. I ses, 'What do you want with a book?' and he
ses, looking at the shelves so empty, 'I sees your sellin' off,' he ses,
so I jumped up to clip him over the 'ead, when he cut. Tray's his name,
Debby, and he's the kid as talked to that cold gent Mr. Beecot brought
along with him when he got smashed."

"Tray--that's a dog's name," said Deborah, "old dog Tray, and quite good
enough for guttersnipes. As to Mr. Hay, don't arsk me to say he's good,
for that he ain't. What's he want talking with gutter Trays?"

"And what do gutter Trays want with books?" asked Bart, "though to be
sure 'twas impertinence maybe."

Deborah nodded. "That it was, and what you'd have done when you was a
scrubby thing. Don't bolt your food, but make every bit 'elp you to
'ealth and long living. You won't 'ave gormandising when we've got the
laundry, I can tell you."

Next day Aaron went off in the afternoon to Charing Cross Hospital,
after holding a conversation with a broker who had agreed to buy the
derelict furniture. The shop, being empty, was supposed to be closed,
but from force of habit Bart took down the shutters and lurked
disconsolately behind the bare counter. Several old customers who had
not heard of the sale entered, and were disappointed when they learned
that Aaron was leaving. Their lamentations made Bart quite low-spirited.
However, he was polite to all, but his manners broke down when a Hindoo
entered to sell boot-laces. "I ain't got nothing to sell, and don't want
to buy nohow," said Bart, violently.

The man did not move, but stood impassively in the doorway like a bronze
statue. He wore a dirty red turban carelessly wound round his small
head, an unclean blouse which had once been white, circled by a yellow
handker