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‘Yes,’ said Flossy, ‘I love her more than anything; she’s a dear baby, and I never find the days long when I’m playing with her and talking to her: but you see, Peter, she’s not to be kept at home; she’s to go to the workhouse to-morrow morning, unless we can find a nice hiding-place for her. We can’t find a hiding-place, Peter, for though you are a rich boy and have got a lot of pennies, yet you haven’t enough for us to get a room for ourselves and Dickory, and the night air don’t agree with her–oh, there, she’s sneezing again–bless her, the pet! Peter, I hope you always say “bless her!” when Dickory sneezes. Martha says it isn’t lucky if you don’t. O Peter, I do think if we must part with the baby it would be better to give her to the lady who cried than to send her to the workhouse.’

‘But we don’t know where the lady lives,’ said Peter. ‘We might do it if we knew where the lady lived; but we can’t, however much we wish to, if we don’t.’

‘But I do know,’ answered Flossy, ‘I know quite well, ’cause last week I saw the lady. I was out with mother, and mother went to the greengrocer’s, and while she was there the lady comed in. She was all in black, and I am sure she had been crying a lot, for she looked so sad; and I knew it was her. Afterwards mother and I walked behind her as she went home, and she turned into a great big house in the square near us. You know the square, Peter, the square that begins with a big B; Bev—something, I can’t say it all.’

‘Bevington Square,’ said Peter, in a gloomy voice.

‘Yes, yes, that was it, and 10 was the number of the house. I don’t forget the number ’cause I asked mother, and she said it was 10. O Peter, that’s where our lady lives, and I do think it would be better to give her Dickory. There, Peter, bless her! she’s sneezing again. I’m sure we had better take her to the lady.’

‘All right,’ answered Peter, ‘I’ll be a termagant again when she’s gone; see if I won’t. I’ll get up an awful racking cough at night, and I’ll worry that nasty Mr Martin much more than Dickory has worried him, see if I don’t; and I’ll sing on the stairs, and I’ll whistle awful loud, and I’ll buy a Jew’s-harp with one of my pennies. I’ll turn into a horrid boy! but I suppose you are right about Dickory, Flossy. Here, let’s go back as fast as we can to that house you were so ‘cute as to take the number of. I’m mis’rible, and I mean to be mis’rible, so don’t you expect nothing cheerful from me, Flossy.’

‘Very well, Peter,’ said Flossy meekly.

And then the little party, slowly and painfully, for Flossy was very, very tired, and poor Peter’s arms ached fearfully, retraced their steps. The baby had ceased crying and was asleep, and after about two hours’ patient walking and asking their way, the children found themselves in Bevington Square.

‘I’d better go up first to the door,’ said Flossy, ‘and ask her if she’d like a baby. You might stand round there, Peter, and you might keep Snip-snap with you.’

‘You needn’t press her about it,’ said Peter; ‘if she don’t seem quite delighted we won’t give up Dickory on no account; and kiss her before you go, Flossy, for of course the lady will take her; and in a few minutes she won’t be our Dickory no more.’

Peter unfastened a corner of the old tartan shawl, and Flossy imprinted a grave kiss on the baby’s forehead. Then, with great solemnity, and with the air of one engaged on an important mission, she went up the steps of the great house and rang the bell. Flossy was an attractive little child, her hair was really beautiful, and she had a very wistful and taking manner.