"Oh, but he won't," said Lizzie, cheerfully. "You'll take care of that beforehand."
"Yes, I shall try to take care of it beforehand; but, Lizzie, you know, he might deceive me. Oh, my dear, I couldn't bear it in him. I would do some dreadful thing to him—I know I should."
"No, you wouldn't, dear."
"Well," said the little creature, after a pause, and speaking in her softer voice again, "you generally know best, Lizzie; but, oh! you haven't got a bad child to make you sick and tired!" And then the poor little dolls' dressmaker cried with her head on Lizzie's shoulder.
One day Lizzie had a holiday, and she and Jenny set out to walk into the city by the pleasant river-side. Lizzie carried Jenny's little scrap-basket on her arm, and they were in luck, for a man driving a market wagon saw the small figure and the crutch, with the beautiful hair flowing around them, and stopped his horses, nodded respectfully to Lizzie, and asked if they wouldn't like a lift. So they rode into London.
"You'll like my fairy godmother," said Jenny, after the teamster put them down, as they went along the narrow street of St. Mary Axe. "He has a very nice old face and a long white beard."
"He!" said Lizzie, wondering.
"Oh yes, he!" Jenny answered, promptly. "A man can be a godmother if he's the right kind, can't he?"
They stopped in front of a yellow house with the blinds drawn down. Jenny struck the door smartly with her crutch, and it was opened by a man in an old-fashioned coat with long skirts and wide pockets. He was old; the top of his head was bald and shining, and long gray hair beginning just above his ears flowed down and mixed with his beard.