But Syd’s bright imagination was a better protection against the cold than all the rubbing that the hands of a merciful woman could offer.  “You are very kind, Lizzie,” she answered.  “I don’t feel the cold when I am playing with my children.  I am very careful to give them plenty of exercise, we are going to walk in the Park.”

She gave a hand to each of the dolls, and walked slowly round and round the miserable room, pointing out visionary persons of distinction and objects of interest.  “Here’s the queen, my dears, in her gilt coach, drawn by six horses.  Do you see her scepter poking out of the carriage window?  She governs the nation with that.  Bow to the queen.  And now look at the beautiful bright water.  There’s the island where the ducks live.  Ducks are happy creatures.  They have their own way in everything, and they’re good to eat when they’re dead.  At least they used to be good, when we had nice dinners in papa’s time.  I try to amuse the poor little things, Lizzie.  Their papa is dead.  I’m obliged to be papa and mamma to them, both in one.  Do you feel the cold, my dears?” She shivered as she questioned her imaginary children.  “Now we are at home again,” she said, and led the dolls to the empty fireplace.  “Roaring fires always in my house,” cried the resolute little creature, rubbing her hands cheerfully before the bleak blank grate.

Warm-hearted Lizzie could control herself no longer.

“If the child would only make some complaint,” she burst out, “it wouldn’t be so dreadful!  Oh, what a shame! what a shame!” she cried, to the astonishment of little Syd.  “Come down, my dear, to the nice warm room where your brother is.  Oh, your mother?  I don’t care if your mother sees us; I should like to give your mother a piece of my mind.  There!  I don’t mean to frighten you; I’m one of your bad children—­I fly into a passion.  You carry the dolls and I’ll carry you.  Oh, how she shivers!  Give us a kiss.”

Sympathy which expressed itself in this way was new to Syd.  Her eyes opened wide in childish wonder—­and suddenly closed again in childish terror, when her good friend the servant passed Mrs. Westerfield’s door on the way downstairs.  “If mamma bounces out on us,” she whispered, “pretend we don’t see her.”  The nice warm room received them in safety.  Under no stress of circumstances had Mrs. Westerfield ever been known to dress herself in a hurry.  A good half-hour more had passed before the house door was heard to bang—­and the pleasant landlady, peeping through the window, said:  “There she goes.  Now, we’ll enjoy ourselves!”

5.—­The Landlord.

Mrs. Westerfield’s destination was the public-house in which she had been once employed as a barmaid.  Entering the place without hesitation, she sent in her card to the landlord.  He opened the parlor door himself and invited her to walk in.

“You wear well,” he said, admiring her.  “Have you come back here to be my barmaid again?”