With her expert little ways in sharp action, she had got a doll into whitey-brown paper orders, before the meal was over, and displayed it for the edification of the Jewish mind, and Mr. Riah was lost in admiration for the brave, resolute little soul, who could so put aside her sadness to meet and face her pressing need.

And many times thereafter was he likewise lost in admiration of his little friend, who continued her business as of old, only without the burden of responsibility by which her life had heretofore been clouded, and more able to give her imagination free play along the lines of her interests, without the pressure of home care resting upon her poor shoulders.

Our last glimpse of her, is as usual, before her little workbench, at work upon a full-dressed, large sized doll, when there comes a knock upon the door.  When it is opened there is disclosed a young fellow known to his friends and employer, as Sloppy.

Sloppy was full private No 1 in the Awkward Squad of the rank and file of life, and yet had his glimmering notions of standing true to his colors, and in instinctive refinement of feeling was much above others who outranked him in birth and education.

“Come in, sir,” said Miss Wren, “and who may you be?”

Mr. Sloppy introduced himself by name and buttons.

“Oh, indeed,” cried Jenny, “I have heard of you.”

Sloppy, grinning, was so glad to hear it that he threw back his head and laughed.

“Bless us!” exclaimed Miss Wren, with a start, “Don’t open your mouth as wide as that, young man, or it’ll catch so, and not shut again, some day.”

Mr. Sloppy opened it, if possible, wider, and kept it open, until his laugh was out.

“Why, you’re like the giant,” said Miss Wren, “when he came home in the land of Beanstalk, and wanted Jack for supper.”

“Was he good looking, Miss?” asked Sloppy.

“No,” said Miss Wren.  “Ugly.”

Her visitor glanced round the room—­which had many comforts in it now, that it had not had before—­and said: 

“This is a pretty place, Miss.

“Glad you think so, sir,” returned Miss Wren.  “And what do you think of Me?”

The honesty of Mr. Sloppy being severely taxed by the question, he twisted a button, grinned, and faltered.

“Out with it,” said Miss Wren, with an arch look.  “Don’t you think me a queer little comicality?” In shaking her head at him after asking the question, she shook her hair down.

“Oh!” cried Sloppy in a burst of admiration.  “What a lot, and what a color!”

Miss Wren with her usual expressive hitch, went on with her work.  But left her hair as it was, not displeased by the effect it had made.

“You don’t live here alone, do you, Miss?” asked Sloppy.

“No,” said Miss Wren with a chop.  “Live here with my fairy godmother.”

“With;” Mr. Sloppy couldn’t make it out; “with, who did you say, Miss?”