or change?"

Patience did not reply, and little Miss Joy, having caught sight of
George Paterson, came springing towards him.

"Oh! I have got some beautiful shells," she said--"such a big one.
Put it to your ear, and listen to the sound of the sea. And Bet has
got one too. Come, Bet, and show it."

Bet advanced slowly and awkwardly, her angular shoulders nearly
touching her ears, her rough sandy hair gathered into a little knot at
the back of her head, on which a very shabby brown hat was set on one
side.

Bertha had the cringing, deprecating manner of an ill-used dog. No one
liked her, no one cared for her, and she was fully alive to the fact.
Only sweet little Miss Joy ever said a kind and pleasant word to her,
and her devotion to this merry child filled her whole soul. She dare
not show it; she dare not lavish any of the ordinary endearments upon
her. She saw the other girls at Miss Bayliff's kiss and fondle her;
she heard her praised and admired; she saw little gifts showered upon
her--but she did none of these things. Poor Bertha's was a blind and
dumb worship for one who smiled at her when others frowned, who could
seek her society when others shunned it, and could encourage her with
her tasks--so far below her age--when others called her a dunce and an
idiot.

The tea on the leads was a great success; although, to be sure, a few
black tokens from a neighbouring chimney peppered the cakes, and one or
two danced into Mr. Boyd's large breakfast-cup full of tea. Before tea
was over, however, the shop-door bell was heard to ring furiously, and
Susan, who had been invited to her share of the feast, trudged down, to
trudge back, breathless and indignant, after a few minutes' absence,
saying--

"Miss Pinckney can't give no one any rest. She is wanting you, Mrs.
Harrison, to go and keep the house, as she is off with Mr. Skinner. I
shouldn't hurry now if I was you. Let her wait, Mrs. Harrison."

"No; I promised to go back by six o'clock."

"Saint Nicholas clock has not struck yet," said Uncle Bobo. "Don't you
hurry, Mrs. Harrison, for we must have a song before we part--eh, my
Joy?"

"If you please, Uncle Bobo, let it be 'Tom Bowling.'"

Whereupon Mr. Boyd began to groan forth in not very dulcet tones the
familiar song and strain, beginning--

"Here, a sheer-hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling."

Mr. Boyd's voice had not been very musical in youth, and now the sounds
seemed to come more from his b