e of that city where each trade offered its own
commodity for the defence, even to the cobbler, who proposed to lay in a
stock of good l-e-a-t-h-e-r--lather!

These, and three little maidens who had picture spelling-books not going
beyond monosyllables, were the aristocracy, and sat apart, shielded from
the claws and teeth of their neighbours in consideration of paying
fourpence, instead of twopence, a week. The boy was supposed to write
large letters on a slate, and the bigger girls did some needlework, and
not badly--indeed, it was the best of their performances. The dame went
on mumbling and shaking all the time, and it was quite evident that she
was entirely past the work, and that Lizzie was the real mistress;
indeed, Mrs Carbonel was inclined to give her credit for a certain
talent for teaching and keeping order, when the sisters emerged from the
close little oven of a place, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry,
but full of great designs.

Captain Carbonel, however, to their disappointment, advised them to wait
to set anything on foot till Dr Fogram, the President of Saint Cyril's,
came down in the summer holidays, when counsel could be taken with him,
and there would be more knowledge of the subject. Dora did not like
this at all. She was sure that the Son of Mist, as she was naughty
enough to call the doctor, would only hamper them, and she was only half
consoled by being told that there was no objection to her collecting a
few of the children on Sunday and trying to teach them, and in the
meantime acquaintance might be made with the mothers.

CHAPTER FIVE.

AT HOME.

"Now I've gone through all the village, from end to end,
save and except one more house;
But I haven't come to that, and I hope I never shall,
and that's the village Poor House."
_T. Hood_.

Cottage visiting turned out to be a much chequered affair. One of the
first places to which the sisters made their way was the Widow Mole's.
They found it, rather beyond the church, down a lane, where it was
hidden behind an overgrown thorn hedge, and they would scarcely have
found it at all, if a three-year-old child had not been clattering an
old bit of metal against the bar put across to prevent his exit. He was
curly and clean, except with the day's surface dirt, but he only stared
stolidly at the question whether Mrs Mole lived there. A ten-year-old
girl came out, and answered the question.

"Yes, mother do live here, but