aid Connie, "ef yer saw 'im yer couldn't but love 'im. He's the
wery prettiest little fellow that yer ever clapped yer two eyes on--with
'is delicate face an' 'is big brown eyes--and the wonnerful thoughts he
have, too. Poetry ain't in it. Be yer fond o' poetry yerself, Agnes?"

"I fond o' poetry?" almost screamed Agnes. "Not I! That is, I never
heerd it--don't know wot it's like. I ha' no time to think o' poetry.
I'm near mad sometimes fidgeting and fretting how to get myself a smart
'at, an' a stylish jacket, an' a skirt that hangs with a sort o' swing
about it. But you, now--you never think on yer clothes."

"Oh yes, but I do," said Connie; "and I ha' got a wery pwitty new dress
now as father guv me not a fortnight back; and w'en father don't drink
he's wery fond o' me, an' he bought this dress at the pawnshop."

"Lor', now, did he?" said Agnes. "Wot sort be it, Connie?"

"Dark blue, with blue velvet on it. It looks wery stylish."

"You'd look like a lydy in that sort o' dress," said Agnes. "You've the
face of a lydy--that any one can see."

"Have I?" said Connie. She put up her somewhat roughened hand to her
smooth little cheeks.

"Yes, you 'ave; and wot I say is this--yer face is yer fortoon. Now,
look yer 'ere. We'll stand at this corner till the Westminster 'bus
comes up, and then we'll take a penn'orth each, and that'll get us wery
near 'ome. Yer don't think as yer father'll be 'ome to-night, Connie?"

"'Tain't likely," replied Connie; "'e seldom comes in until it's time
for 'im to go to bed."

"Well then, that's all right. When we get to Westminster, you skid down
Adam Street until yer get to yer diggin's; an' then hup you goes and
changes yer dress. Into the very genteel dark-blue costoom you gets, and
down you comes to yer 'umble servant wot is waitin' for yer below
stairs."

This programme was followed out in all its entirety by Connie. The
omnibus set the girls down not far from her home. Connie soon reached
her room. No father there, no fire in the grate. She turned on the gas
and looked around her.

The room was quite a good one, of fair size, and the furniture was not
bad of its sort. Peter Harris himself slept on a trundle-bed in the
sitting-room, but Connie had a little room all to herself just beyond.
Here she kept her small bits of finery, and in especial the lovely new
costume which her father had given her.

She was not long in slipping off her working-clothes. Then she washed
her fac