up too with the things, shuffled into the same receptacle, that her mother had said about her father.
She had the knowledge that on a certain occasion which every day brought nearer, her mother would be at the door to take her away; and this would have darkened all the days if the ingenious Moddle had not written on a paper, in very big, easy words, ever so many pleasures that she would enjoy at the other house. These promises ranged from "a mother's fond love" to "a nice poached egg to your tea;" and took by the way the prospect of sitting up ever so late to see the lady in question dressed in silks and velvets and diamonds and pearls to go out. So that it was a real support to Maisie, at the supreme hour, to feel that, by Moddle's direction, the paper was thrust away in her pocket and there clenched in her fist. The supreme hour was to furnish her with a vivid reminiscence, that of a strange outbreak, in the drawing-room, on the part of Moddle, who, in reply to something her father had just said, cried aloud: "You ought to be perfectly ashamed of yourself; you ought to blush, sir, for the way you go on!" The carriage, with her mother in it, was at the
