door within a small entry stood open, and
disclosed a child--a dwarf--a girl--a something--sitting on a little low
old-fashioned arm-chair, which had a kind of little working bench before
it.

'I can't get up,' said the child, 'because my back's bad, and my legs
are queer. But I'm the person of the house.'

'Who else is at home?' asked Charley Hexam, staring.

'Nobody's at home at present,' returned the child, with a glib assertion
of her dignity, 'except the person of the house. What did you want,
young man?'

'I wanted to see my sister.'

'Many young men have sisters,' returned the child. 'Give me your name,
young man?'

The queer little figure, and the queer but not ugly little face, with
its bright grey eyes, were so sharp, that the sharpness of the manner
seemed unavoidable. As if, being turned out of that mould, it must be
sharp.

'Hexam is my name.'

'Ah, indeed?' said the person of the house. 'I thought it might be. Your
sister will be in, in about a quarter of an hour. I am very fond of your
sister. She's my particular friend. Take a seat. And this gentleman's
name?'

'Mr Headstone, my schoolmaster.'

'Take a seat. And would you please to shut the street door first? I
can't very well do it myself; because my back's so bad, and my legs are
so queer.'

They complied in silence, and the little figure went on with its work of
gumming or gluing together with a camel's-hair brush certain pieces
of cardboard and thin wood, previously cut into various shapes. The
scissors and knives upon the bench showed that the child herself had cut
them; and the bright scraps of velvet and silk and ribbon also strewn
upon the bench showed that when duly stuffed (and stuffing too was
there), she was to cover them smartly. The dexterity of her nimble
fingers was remarkable, and, as she brought two thin edges accurately
together by giving them a little bite, she would glance at the visitors
out of the corners of her grey eyes with a look that out-sharpened all
her other sharpness.

'You can't tell me the name of my trade, I'll be bound,' she said, after
taking several of these observations.

'You make pincushions,' said Charley.

'What else do I make?'

'Pen-wipers,' said Bradley Headstone.

'Ha! ha! What else do I make? You're a schoolmaster, but you can't tell
me.'

'You do something,' he returned, pointing to a corner of the little
bench, 'with straw; but I don't know what.'

'Well done you!' cried the per