‘Thank you, but I—­’

’My!  What a smoke ye’re in!  Take care, or I shall have ’em all to do over again.  Go up to Mother, do, like a good lad.’

‘I can’t, Betsey; I must go home.’

’Ay! that’s the way.  Lads never can sit down sensible and comfortable! it’s all the same—­’

‘I wanted,’ said Harold, interrupting her, ’to ask you to lend me sixpence.  Pony’s cast a shoe, and I had to leave her with the smith.’

‘Ay?  Who did you leave her with?’

‘The first I came to, up in Wood Street.’

’Myers.  Ye shouldn’t have done that.  His wife’s the most stuck-up proud body I ever saw—­wears steel petticoats, I’ll answer for it.  You should have gone to Charles Shaw.’

‘Can’t help it,’ said Harold.  ’Please, Betsey, let me have the sixpence; I’ll pay you faithfully to-morrow!’

’Ay! that’s always the way.  Never come in unless ye want somewhat.  ’Twasn’t the way your poor father went on!  He’d a civil word for every one.  Well, and can’t you stop a minute to say how your poor brother is?’

‘Much the same,’ said Harold impatiently.

’Yes, he’ll never be no better, poor thing!  All decliny; as I says to Mother, what a misfortune it is upon poor Cousin King! they’ll all go off, one after t’other, just like innocents to the slaughter.’

This was not a cheerful prediction; and Harold petulantly said he must get back, and begged for the sixpence.  He got it at last, but not till all Betsey’s pocket had been turned out; and finding nothing but shillings and threepenny-bits, she went all through her day’s expenses aloud, calling all her girls to witness to help her to account for the sixpence that ought to have been there.

Mrs. Brown had paid her four and sixpence—­one florin and a half-crown—­and she had three threepenny-pieces in her pocket, and twopence.  Then Sally had been out and got a shilling’s-worth of soap, and six-penn’orth of blue, and brought home one shilling; and there was the sausages—­no one could recollect what they had cost, though they talked so much about their taste; and five-pence-worth of red-herrings, and the butter; yes, and threepence to the beggar who said he had been in Sebastopol.  Harold’s head was ready to turn round before it was all done; but he got away at last, with a scolding for not going up to see Mother.

Home he trotted as hard as the pony would go, holding his head down to try to bury nose and mouth in his collar, and the thick rain plastering his hair, and streaming down the back of his neck.  What an ill-used wretch was he, said he to himself, to have to rattle all over the country in such weather!

Here was home at last.  How comfortable looked the bright light, as the cottage door was thrown open at the sound of the horse’s feet!

‘Well, Harold!’ cried Ellen eagerly, ‘is anything the matter?’

‘No,’ he said, beginning to get sulky because he felt he was wrong; ‘only Peggy lost a shoe—­’