John Monday produced it from a drawer under the counter and handed it to its owner.
"Thank you," Mr. Bradley said. "What have I to pay?"
"Three shillings, if you please, sir."
The clergyman paid the money, but lingered still. "Anything else I can do for you to-day, sir?" inquired Mr. Harding.
"No, thank you. They tell me that you have adopted a little girl, Mr. Harding. Is that a fact?"
"I suppose it is," the old man admitted. "At any rate, I am making a home for a little girl, the daughter of a cousin of mine who is dead. The poor child has no friends to do anything for her except myself and an aunt and uncle—very good people in their way, no doubt, but, to my mind, utterly improvident! They have quite enough to do to look after their own children, I should say. I've taken the little girl, and mean to be a friend to her if she behaves herself. Here, Mousey, a gentleman's inquiring about you! Come here."
At the sound of Mr. Harding's voice calling to her the child started, and her face flushed rosy red. She stepped into the shop, however, where Mr. Bradley greeted her with a pleasant smile, at the same time holding out his hand. Mousey slipped her fingers into his with a feeling of confidence and trust.
"What is your name, my dear?" he asked, after he had shaken hands with her.
"Arabella Abbot, sir," she answered, "but everyone calls me Mousey."
He smiled and looked at her curiously, with a puzzled air, as he inquired—