“It’s very cheap sweetening at that price; we are going to rise on it to-morrow.”

After that she stood a minute in front of the store, and shook her head at Jacob, a little boy, some three years old, who was trying to balance a patent washboard against a tree which grew out of the brick pavement.  It was a large, scrawny tree, which looked as if it was obliged to live there, but didn’t want to, and had tried in vain to get burnt up in the Portland fire.  From the lower branches of the tree depended a couple of dun-colored hams, and a painted board, with the words, “Good Family Butter.”

“Come in, Jacob, you naughty boy!” said Mrs. Rosenberg, this time shaking him, because she was afraid he would injure the patent wash-board.  Then Jacob, who had been waiting for the shaking, and would not stir without it, went in at the side door crying; for the family lived in one end of the store.

Mrs. Rosenberg had a great many children, and was obliged to work very hard at various employments.  Just now she went to spreading pumpkin-seeds to dry under the stove.  She was not expecting company; and when Mandoline entered with Dotty, she looked up from her work with a frown.

“Who’ve you brought home with you this time, Mandoline Rosenberg?” said she.  “Take off your hat and hang it over them tommatuses; but mind yer don’t drop it into that dish of lard.”

“Mother,” pleaded Mandoline, “we want to go up chamber to see my pretty things; her mother sent her a-purpose.”

“No, she didn’t; no such a thing!  You’re a master hand to pick up children and fetch ’em home here, and then crawl out of it by lying!  Besides, you’ve got to knit.  I must have those socks done by to-morrow noon, Mandy, or I’ll know the reason why.”

As Mrs. Rosenberg spoke, she pushed a waiter full of seeds under the stove as if she hated the very sight of them; and when she stood up again, Dotty observed that her dirty calico dress did not come anywhere near the tops of her calf-skin shoes.

“But, mother,” said Mandoline, with a winning smile, “this is Dotty Dimple, the little girl that gave me the needle-book.”

This was partly true.  Dotty had given Mandoline an old needle-book; but it had been in return for some maple sugar, which the little Jewess had pilfered from her father’s store.

“Dotty Dimple, is it?” said Mrs. Rosenberg, with a sharp look at the little guest.

“I don’t know now any better than I did before.  That’s a name for a doll-baby; I should say.”

“Alice Parlin, mother.”

“Is it?  O, well; you may take her up stairs out of my way; but mind, you must knit every minute you’re gone.”

Dotty was greatly abashed by this reception, and would have rushed out of the house, but Mandoline held her fast.

“You shan’t go a step,” said she, “I’ll hide your hat.”

So Dotty, under peril of going home bareheaded, was obliged to creep up the rickety staircase with Mandoline.  She likened her feelings on the occasion to those of a person whom “the mayor is putting in the lockup.”  Indeed, the “lock-up” was Dotty’s dream of all the horrors, and she had no doubt it was the mayor himself who always stood with his hands outstretched, ready to thrust wicked people into it.