"Put down the poker instantly," exclaimed Aaron; "your aunty, whoever she may be, is not here."
"Tell me somethink I don't know," requested the small girl. "This is Mr. Cohen's, the Jew, aint it?"
"It is," replied Aaron, with despairing gestures, for the baby was dabbing his face with hands sticky with crumbs of sugar stuff.
"Well, wot are yer 'ollerin for? I'm only doing wot aunty told me."
"And who is your aunty?"
"Mrs. 'Orkins. Pretend not to know 'er--do! She sed you'd try to do 'er out of 'er money, and want 'er to take fippence instid of tenpence."
"Did she? You have come here by her orders, I suppose?"
"Yes, I 'ave--to poke out the fire and blow out the candles--and I've done it."
"You have," said Aaron ruefully. "And now, little girl, you will do as I tell you. Put down that poker. Get up. Feel on the mantelshelf for a box of matches. I beg your pardon; you are too short to reach. Here is the box. Take out a match. Strike it. Light the candles. Thank you! Last, but not least, relieve me of this baby with the sticky hands."
The small girl snatched the baby from his arms, and stood before him in an attitude of defiance. For the first time he had a clear view of her.