“Yes, one of the customers; but it was nothing—nothing,” she said, sadly; “I must have dreamed it. Janet, do you believe in fancying things?”
“Fancying things! What are you talking about?”
“In feeling that things are to take place—in being as if something whispered to you that there was to be trouble by and by, and misery, and heartaches—that the hawk was coming to seize a miserable little weak pigeon, and tear, and tear it till its poor heart was bleeding.”
“No; stuff!” ejaculated Janet.
“I feel so,” said Patty, slowly, “and sometimes I believe it. O Janet! if one could be rich and nice, and live where people would not be ashamed to see you, and—Ah! I’d give anything—anything to be rich and a lady. But there,” she cried, impetuously, “do come down.”
“Riddles—talking in riddles; like people speak in their sleep,” said Janet, as she wreathed her long arm round Patty. “Perhaps you ought not to come and see me here, for it is horrible; but I am used to it, and I could not live without you now. They don’t like you to come?”
“No,” said Patty; “but they think it would be unkind for me to stay away. They like you, and my father is fond of Monsieur Canau, and loves the musical evenings. You ought to come and live near us.”
“In fashionable Clerkenwell, eh?” said Janet, laughing. “No; he will not leave here—we are used to it, and we are poor, Patty,” she added, with a sigh.
“Lean on me,” said Patty, lightly; “and don’t let’s be miserable;” and they now began to descend the stairs; but only to be met by D. Wragg stumping and jerking up to meet them.
As the dealer came up, he gazed earnestly for a moment at Patty, and there was a hesitating air about him; but he seemed to chase it away, as, with an effort, he exclaimed—