Suddenly she closed the knife sharply.  “Darn it!  I’ve cut myself again,” she said.  She dropped the knife down the neck of her blouse and began to suck her finger.  “Here, let me have Henty, Florence Dombey.  Don’t try to pig it, all the time.  You know I don’t get hardly any time to read.”

The furniture and the remains of the cigar-box cover followed the knife into her blouse and she opened the book.  But before she had begun to read there was a sleepy little call from below.

“Yes, baby!” called the child.  “Here’s Lydia, up in the tree!  Watch me, dearie!  See me come down.  Here comes Florence Dombey first.”

With some difficulty the book followed the knife and the furniture into the blouse.  Florence Dombey, being hastily inverted, showed a length of light martin cord wrapped about her cotton legs.

“Here she comes, baby!  Catch now for Lydia.”

The baby below, a tiny plump replica of Lydia, sat up with a gurgle of delight and held up her arms as Florence Dombey, dangling unhappily, upside down, on the end of the marlin cord, was lowered carefully into the perambulator.

“And here I come.  Watch me, baby!”

With a swing light and agile as a young monkey, Lydia let herself down, landing with a spring of which an acrobat might have boasted, beside the perambulator.

“There, sweetness!”—­kissing the baby—­“first we’ll fix Florence Dombey, then we’ll start for home.”

“Florence, home wiv baby.”

“Yes, it’s getting near supper time.”  Lydia tucked the still hectically staring doll in beside her small sister, turned the perambulator around and ran it along one of the little paths to the sidewalk.  She hoisted it to the sidewalk with some puffing and several “darn its,” then started toward the block of houses, north of the pasture.

At the crossing she met a small girl of her own age, who carried a toy balloon, and a popcorn ball.

“Hello, Lydia!” she cried.  “It was a perfectly lovely circus!”

“Was it?” said Lydia, with an indifferent voice that something in her blue eyes denied.  “Well, I had to take care of little Patience!”

“Huh!” shrilled the little girl, “old Lizzie would have done that!  I think your father’s mean not to give you the money.”

Lydia’s red cheeks went still redder.  “My father’s got plenty of money,” she began fiercely.  Here the baby interrupted.

“Baby love pritty—­Baby love—­” she held out two beseeching dimpled hands toward the red balloon.

“Patience, you can’t have it,” cried Lydia.  “It—­it’ll make your tummy ache.  I’ll buy you one when you’re older.”

The black-eyed child, holding the red balloon, suddenly kissed little Patience, who was the pet of all the children in the neighborhood, and put the string of her balloon into the dimpled hand.  “I had the circus—­you can have the balloon,” she said.