This evening she was not thinking of sailors or ships or anything like that; her mind was full of her own small affairs.  She had got two new dolls, quite tiny ones—­Celestina did not care for big dolls—­and long as the daylight lasted she had been perfectly happy dressing them.  But the daylight was gone now—­it was always rather in a hurry to say good-night to the back parlour—­and the gas was too dim for her to see clearly by, even if she had had anything else to do, which she had not, till mother could give her a scrap or two for the second dolly’s frock.  It was mother she was longing for.  She wanted to show her the hats and cloaks she had made out of some tiny bits for both the dollies—­the cloaks, that is to say, for the hats were crochet-work, crocheted in pink cotton.  Celestina’s little fingers were very clever at crochet.

‘Oh, mother, mother,’ she said half aloud, ‘do come.’

She had drawn back the little green baize curtain which hung before the small window between the shop and the parlour, and was peering in, her nose flattened against the glass.  She was allowed to do this, but she was not allowed to run out and in of the shop without leave, and at this time of the day, or evening, even when there were few customers, she knew that her father and mother were generally busy.  There were late parcels to put up for the little errand-boy to leave on his way home; there was the shop to tidy, and always a good many entries to make in the big ledger.  Very often there were letters to write and send off, ordering supplies needed for the shop, or books not in stock, which some customer had asked for.

It was a bookseller’s and stationer’s shop; the only one worthy of the name at Seacove.  And Mr. Fairchild did a pretty good business, though certainly, as far as the actual book part of it was concerned, people read and bought far fewer books thirty years ago than now.  And books were much dearer.  People wrote fewer letters too; paper and envelopes were dearer also.  Still, one way and another it was not a bad business of its kind in a modest way, though strict economy and care were required to make a livelihood out of it.  And some things had made this more difficult than would otherwise have been the case.  Delicate health perhaps most of all.  Mr. Fairchild was not very strong, and little Celestina had been fragile enough as a baby and a tiny girl, though now she was growing stronger.  No wonder that a great share of both work and care fell on Celestina’s mother, and this the little girl already understood, and tried always to remember.

But it was dull and lonely sometimes.  She had few companions, and for some months past she had not gone to school, as a rather serious illness had made her unable to go out in bad weather.  She did not mind this much; she liked to do lessons by herself, for father or mother to correct when they had time, and there was no child at school she cared for particularly.  Still poor Celestina was pining for companionship without knowing it.  Perhaps, though mother said little, she understood more about it than appeared.