"'Oh, dear, oh, dear,' moaned Mrs. Middlemore. 'What am I to do with her? And after all the nice things you said of her this morning, sir?'
"'Did you say nice things of me?' asked Sophy, of our reporter.
"'I did, Sophy,' he replied, 'and I'm sure you will do as your aunt tells you.'
"'That settles it. I'll go. 'Ow long for, aunty?'
"'An hour. Not a minute more.'
"'I say'--to our reporter--'you might lend us yer watch. Then I shouldn't make any mistake.'
"'Get along with you,' said our reporter, laughing. 'The shops are full of clocks.'
"'Thank yer for nothing,' said Sophy, proceeding to array herself. Spitting on the palm of her hand, she made a pretence of smoothing her hair. Then she looked at herself in a piece of looking-glass that was hanging on the wall, and turned her head this way and that, smirking most comically. Then she shook out her skirts, and looked over her shoulder to see that they hung becomingly. Then she tied a piece of string round one yawning boot. Then she put on her head something in straw that once might have been called a hat, but which had long since forfeited all claims to respectability. Then she fished out a poor little scarf, about six inches square, and pinned it round her shoulders with a coquettishness not devoid of grace. Her toilette completed, she asked--
"'Will I do?'
"'Very nicely, Sophy,' said our reporter. But although he spoke gayly he was stirred by a certain pity for this little waif, who was so conspicuously animated by a spirit to make the best of things--a spirit which might with advantage be emulated by her betters--and who made a joke even of her poverty and rags.