her 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.

"You make pincushions," said Charley.

"What else do I make?"

"Penwipers," said his friend.

"Ha, ha! What else do I make?"

"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 person of the house. "I only make
pincushions and penwipers, to use up my waste. But my straw really does
belong to my business. Try again. What do I make with my straw?"

"Dinner-mats?"

"Dinner-mats! I'll give you a clue to my trade in a game of forfeits. I
love my love with a B because she's beautiful; I hate my love with a B
because she is brazen; I took her to the sign of the Blue Boar; and I
treated her with Bonnets; her name's Bouncer and she lives in
Bedlam--now, what do I make with my straw?"

"Ladies' bonnets?"

"Fine ladies'," said the person of the house, nodding assent. "Dolls'.
I'm a Doll's dressmaker."

"I hope it's a good business?"

The person of the house shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "No.
Poorly paid. And I'm often so pressed for time. I had a doll married
last week, and was obliged to work all night. And they take no care of
their clothes, and they never keep to the same fashions a month. I work
for a doll with three daughters. Bless you, she's enough to ruin her
husband!" The person of the house gave a weird little laugh, and gave
them another look but of the corners of her eyes. She had an elfin chin
that was capable of great expression; and whenever she gave this look,
she hitched this chin up, as if her eyes and her chin worked together on
the same wires.

"Are you always as busy as you are now?"

"Busier. I'm slack just now. I finished a large mourning order the day
before yesterday. Doll I work for lost a canary bird."

"Are you alone all day?" asked Bradley Headstone. "Don't any of the
neighboring children--?"

"Ah," cried the person of the house, with a little scream as if the word
had pricked her. "Don't talk of children. I can't bear children. I know
their tricks and their manners!" She said this with an angry little
shake of her right fist, adding:

"Always running about and screeching, always playing and fighting,
always skip--skip--skipping on the pavement, and cha