“Cash! Cash! One hundred-and-five!” called the salesman a third time.
A very thin, small arm was thrust forward toward the counter from between Miss Cicely and the crowding shopper next to her and a very small breathless voice replied:
“Yes, sir! Here, sir! Cash one-hundred-and-five, sir!”
The salesman nodded.
“This is the one I was speaking about, madam,” he said turning to Miss Cicely and indicating the arm and the voice just beside her.
Miss Cissy bent her head and looked down. There, at her elbow, almost crushed flat by the crowd, and breathless with running, stood a little errand-girl. She could not have been more than ten years old, but her great anxious eyes and the little grown-up furrow between her brows made her appear much older. Miss Cissy saw her small hand tremble as she handed the salesman her basket, and noticed, also in a flash, that it was a clean hand and that the shabby-sleeve through which it was thrust, was clean also. Miss Cicely moved to make room for the mite of a business-woman. The business-woman looked up—and the next moment Miss Cicely had put an arm about her.
“So you are Cash one-hundred-and-five?” she inquired, kindly drawing her to her side.
The child nodded, murmuring, “Yes’m,” and shoved her basket toward the salesman who pretended to busy himself putting the silk and bill-of-sale into it.
“And how old are you, I wonder?” pursued Miss Cissy.
“Ten, ’m,” answered Cash, feeling worried at these unbusinesslike interruptions, but trying not to let the fine lady see it.