Nelly, as I said, stood as if she grew there, watching Miss Powell as she worked, unmindful of the people who now and then pushed against her. At last she was startled by a stiff piece of paper which came flying down from an upper window in the same building directly into her face. She caught it in her hand and looked at it. It was a worsted pattern like those in the window,—a pretty bunch of red and white roses. For one moment, Nelly felt tempted to keep it. She loved pretty things, and she had very few of them; but Nelly was, with all her faults, an honest child, and had never stolen the worth of a six-pence. In another minute she had reflected with a great rush of joy that here was a good excuse for going into the shop and speaking to the lady. She opened the door and entered shyly. Miss Powell was just then waiting on a customer, and Nelly stood in silence by the counter, looking at the pretty things in the show-case. Presently the young lady who was winding worsted turned and spoke to Nelly:—
"Do you want any thing, little girl?"
"I want to speak to that lady," said Nelly, pointing to Miss Powell, who had finished attending upon her customer and had gone to the back part of the store.
"Miss Powell," called the other young lady, "here is a child waiting to speak to you."
"Did you want me, my little girl?" asked Miss Powell, kindly. She did not for the moment remember Nelly, but she always spoke pleasantly to every one. She did not have, as I have sometimes seen, one sort of manner for rich customers and another for poor ones.
"Please, I found this," said Nelly, producing the pattern, which she had all the time carefully held under her shawl. "I thought it might belong in here, because it is like those in the window."
"That was very good in you," said Miss Powell. "I see you are an honest girl. I presume the pattern does belong here; though I do not understand how it came in the street."
"I think it blew out of the window," said Nelly, her heart beginning to sink as she saw that Miss Powell did not recognize her.
Just then another lady came part-way down the staircase at the back of the shop.
"Have you seen any thing of my pattern, Miss Powell?" she asked. "I left it with my work on the window, and when I came back it was gone. I am afraid it has fallen into the street; and, if so, my work is ruined."