"Yes, child; there's just six and a half dozen. Now mind you don't spill any of them."
Little Angel tried to lift the great basket, but it was more than she could manage; the blood rushed into her little pale face with the effort.
"Tim will help you," said her mother. "Go and call him; I'll give him a slice of treacle and bread, if he'll come."
Tim, who was a neighbour's little boy, agreed to the bargain, and the two children started together.
On they toiled through the wet and muddy streets, almost without speaking, until little Angel paused before a large house in one of the grander streets of that small town.
"Who lives here?" said Tim, as he glanced up at the bow windows and at the great door with pillars on each side of it.
"This is where we're going," said Angel. "These are Mrs. Douglas's clothes. Help me to carry them in."
So the children went by a long passage to the back door.
They rang twice before any one came to open it; and then the cook came to the door with a very red face, and with very white hands, for she was in the midst of baking.
"You'll have to wait a minute or two," she said; "come inside and put your basket down; it's Miss Ellie's birthday, and I'm very busy. I'll take them out of the basket when these cakes are done."