r life--to meet her
there one day, never, never, never to part any more.'

'It was my Mama!' exclaimed the child, springing up, and clasping her
round the neck.

'And the child's heart,' said Polly, drawing her to her breast: 'the
little daughter's heart was so full of the truth of this, that even when
she heard it from a strange nurse that couldn't tell it right, but was a
poor mother herself and that was all, she found a comfort in it--didn't
feel so lonely--sobbed and cried upon her bosom--took kindly to the baby
lying in her lap--and--there, there, there!' said Polly, smoothing the
child's curls and dropping tears upon them. 'There, poor dear!'

'Oh well, Miss Floy! And won't your Pa be angry neither!' cried a quick
voice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown, womanly girl of
fourteen, with a little snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads. 'When
it was 'tickerlerly given out that you wasn't to go and worrit the wet
nurse.

'She don't worry me,' was the surprised rejoinder of Polly. 'I am very
fond of children.'

'Oh! but begging your pardon, Mrs Richards, that don't matter, you
know,' returned the black-eyed girl, who was so desperately sharp and
biting that she seemed to make one's eyes water. 'I may be very fond of
pennywinkles, Mrs Richards, but it don't follow that I'm to have 'em for
tea. 'Well, it don't matter,' said Polly. 'Oh, thank'ee, Mrs Richards,
don't it!' returned the sharp girl. 'Remembering, however, if you'll
be so good, that Miss Floy's under my charge, and Master Paul's under
your'n.'

'But still we needn't quarrel,' said Polly.

'Oh no, Mrs Richards,' rejoined Spitfire. 'Not at all, I don't wish it,
we needn't stand upon that footing, Miss Floy being a permanency, Master
Paul a temporary.' Spitfire made use of none but comma pauses; shooting
out whatever she had to say in one sentence, and in one breath, if
possible.

'Miss Florence has just come home, hasn't she?' asked Polly.

'Yes, Mrs Richards, just come, and here, Miss Floy, before you've been
in the house a quarter of an hour, you go a smearing your wet face
against the expensive mourning that Mrs Richards is a wearing for your
Ma!' With this remonstrance, young Spitfire, whose real name was Susan
Nipper, detached the child from her new friend by a wrench--as if she
were a tooth. But she seemed to do it, more in the excessively sharp
exercise of her official functions, than with any deliberate unkindness.

'She'll be qui