One foggy evening as usual, he set out for Church Street, and, wading
through the fog, waded to the doorstep of the dolls' dressmaker.
Miss Wren expected him. He could see her through the window, by the
light of her low fire--carefully banked up with damp cinders, that it
might last the longer, and waste the less when she went out--sitting
waiting for him, in her bonnet. His tap at the glass roused her from the
musing solitude in which she sat, and she opened the door, aiding her
steps with a little crutch-stick.
"Good evening, godmother!" said Miss Jenny Wren.
The old man laughed, and gave her his arm to lean on. "Won't you come
in and warm yourself, godmother?" she asked.
"Not if you are ready, Cinderella, my dear."
"Well!" exclaimed Miss Wren, delighted. "Now you ARE a clever old boy!
If we only gave prizes at this establishment you should have the first
silver medal for taking me up so quick." As she spake thus, Miss Wren
removed the key of the house-door from the keyhole, and put it in her
pocket. Satisfied that her dwelling was safe, she drew one hand through
the old man's arm, and prepared to ply her crutch-stick with the other.
But the key was of such gigantic proportions that before they started,
Riah proposed to carry it.
"No, no, no! I'll carry it myself," returned Miss Wren. "I'm awfully
lop-sided, you know, and stowed down in my pocket, it'll trim the ship.
To let you into a secret, godmother, I wear my pocket on my high side
o' purpose.
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