"I can't get up," said the child, "because my back's bad and my legs are queer. But I'm the person of the house."
"Who else is at home?" asked Charley Hexam, staring?
"Nobody's at home at present," returned the child, with a glib assertion of her dignity, "except the person of the house."
The queer little figure, and the queer, but not ugly little face, with its bright grey eyes, was so sharp that the sharpness of the manner seemed unavoidable.
The person of the house continued the conversation: "Your sister will be in," she said, "in about a quarter of an hour. I'm very fond of your sister. Take a seat. And would you please to shut the street door first? I can't very well do it myself, because my back's so bad and my legs are so queer."
They complied, and the little figure went on with its work of gumming or gluing together pieces of cardboard and thin wood, cut into various shapes. The scissors and knives upon the bench, showed that the child herself had cut them; and the bright scraps of velvet and silk and ribbon also strewn upon the bench showed that when duly stuffed, she was to cover them smartly. The dexterity of her nimble fingers was remarkable, and as she brought two thin edges accurately together by giving them a little bite, she would glance at the visitors out of the corners of her grey eyes with a look that out-sharpened all her other sharpness.
"You can't tell me the name of my trade, I'll be bound," she said.
"You make pincushions," said Charley.
"What else do I make?"
"Penwipers," said his friend.