have befriended;
shielding his own meanness and dishonesty behind the venerable figure of
the Jew, and keeping his own connection with the firm a profound secret.
Mr. Riah suffered himself to remain in such a position only because once
when he had had sickness and misfortune, and owed Mr. Fledgeby's father
both principal and interest, the son inheriting, had been merciful and
placed him there; and little did the guileless old man realize that he
had long since, richly repaid the debt; his age and serene
respectability, added to the characteristics ascribed to his race,
making a valuable screen to hide his employer's misdeeds.

The aged Jew often befriended the dolls' dressmaker, and she called him,
in her fanciful way, "godmother."

On his roof-top garden, Jenny Wren and her friend Lizzie were sitting
one day, together, when Mr. Fledgeby came up and joined the party,
interrupting their conversation. For the girls, perhaps with some old
instinct of his race, the gentle Jew had spread a carpet. Seated on it,
against no more romantic object than a blackened chimney-stack, over
which some humble creeper had been trained, they both pored over one
book, while a basket of common fruit, and another basket of strings of
beads and tinsel scraps were lying near.

"This, sir," explained the old Jew, "is a little dressmaker for little
people. Explain to the master, Jenny."

"Dolls; that's all," said Jenny shortly. "Very difficult to fit too,
because their figures are so uncertain. You never know where to expect
their waists."

"I made acquaintance with my guests, sir," pursued the old Jew, with an
evident purpose of drawing out the dressmaker, "through their coming
here to buy our damage and waste for Miss Jenny's millinery. They wear
it in their hair, and on their ball-dresses, and even (so she tells me)
are presented at court with it."

"Ah!" said Fledgeby, "she's been buying that basketful to-day, I
suppose."

"I suppose she has," Miss Jenny interposed, "and paying for it too, most
likely," adding, "we are thankful to come up here for rest, sir; for
the quiet and the air, and because it's so high. And you see the clouds
rushing on above the narrow streets, not minding them, and you see the
golden arrows pointing at the mountains in the sky, from which the wind
comes, and, you feel as if you were dead."

"How do you feel when you are dead?" asked the practical Mr. Fledgeby,
much perplexed.

"Oh so tranquil!" cried the