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“Ah!” said Fledgeby, “she’s been buying that basketful to-day, I suppose.”

“I suppose she has,” Miss Jenny interposed, “and paying for it too, most likely,” adding, “we are thankful to come up here for rest, sir; for the quiet and the air, and because it’s so high. And you see the clouds rushing on above the narrow streets, not minding them, and you see the golden arrows pointing at the mountains in the sky, from which the wind comes, and, you feel as if you were dead.”

“How do you feel when you are dead?” asked the practical Mr. Fledgeby, much perplexed.

“Oh so tranquil!” cried the little creature smiling. “Oh so peaceful and so thankful! And you hear the people, who are alive, crying and working and calling to one another in the close dark streets and you seem to pity them so! And such a chain has fallen from you, and such a strange, good, sorrowful happiness comes upon you!”

Her eyes fell upon the old man, who, with his hands folded, quietly looked on.

“Why, it was only just now,” said the little creature, pointing at him, “that I fancied I saw him come out of his grave! He toiled out at that low door, so bent and worn, and then he took his breath, and stood upright and looked all around him at the sky, and the wind blew upon him, and his life down in the dark was over!–Till he was called back to life,” she added, looking round at Fledgeby with that lower look of sharpness, “Why did you call him back? But you are not dead, you know,” said Jenny Wren. “Get down to life!”

Mr. Fledgeby seemed to think it a rather good suggestion, and with a nod turned round and took his leave. As Mr. Riah followed him down the stairs, the little creature called out to the Jew in a silvery tone, “Don’t be gone long. Come back and be dead!” And still as they went down, they heard the little sweet voice, more and more faintly, half calling and half singing, “Come back and be dead. Come back and be dead!” And as the old man again mounted, the call or song began to sound in his ears again, and looking above, he saw the face of the little creature looking down out of the glory of her long, bright, radiant hair, and musically repeating to him like a vision:

“Come up and be dead! Come up and be dead!”

Not long after this, there came a heavy trial to the dolls’ dressmaker in the loss from her home of her friend and lodger, Lizzie Hexam. Lizzie, having disagreed with her brother upon a subject of vital interest to herself, and having an intense desire to escape from persons whom she knew would pursue her so long as she remained in London, felt it wisest to quietly disappear from the city, leaving no trace of her whereabouts. With the help of Mr. Riah she accomplished this, and found occupation in a paper-mill in the country, leaving poor Jenny Wren with only the slight consolation of her letters, and with the aged Jew for her sole counsellor and friend. He was frequently with Jenny Wren, often escorting her upon her necessary trips, in returning her fine ladies to their homes in various parts of the city, and sometimes the little creature accompanied him upon his own business trips, as well.

One foggy evening as usual, he set out for Church Street, and, wading through the fog, waded to the doorstep of the dolls’ dressmaker.

Miss Wren expected him. He could see her through the window, by the light of her low fire–carefully banked up with damp cinders, that it might last the longer, and waste the less when she went out–sitting waiting for him, in her bonnet. His tap at the glass roused her from the musing solitude in which she sat, and she opened the door, aiding her steps with a little crutch-stick.