her some cups for eggs, as being more to our present fashion than eating them from one's hand.
"Why," says he, "there's an old bed-post in the corner that will serve me to a nicety. But first I must see our landlord and engage a room for Kit and me; for I take it, my dear," adds he, "you will be content to stay with us here."
"Yes," answers she, " 'tis a most cheerful view of the river from the windows."
She tucked up her skirt and sleeves to busy herself in household matters, and when I would have relieved her of this office, she begged me to go and bear her father company, saying with a piteous look in her eyes that we must leave her some occupation or she should weary. She was pale, there were dark lines beneath her eyes, and she was silent; but I saw no outward sign of grief till the afternoon, when, coming from Jack's shop unexpected, I spied her sitting by the window, with her face in her hands, bowed over a piece of cloth we had bought in the morning, which she was about to fashion into a plain gown, as being more suitable to her condition than the rich dress in which she had left the Court.
"Poor soul!" thinks I; "here is a sad awaking from thy dream of riches and joy."
Upon a seasonable occasion I told Dawson we must soon begin to think of doing something for a livelihood—a matter which was as remote from his consideration as the day of wrath.
"Why, Kit," says he, "I've as good as fifty pounds yet in a hole at the chimney back."
"Aye, but when that's gone—" says I.
"That's a good way hence, Kit, but there never was
