I went back
to the saddler's, pounding them in my hot hand, and bitterly
disappointed.

I don't suppose that Rubens understood the feelings which gave an
extra warmth to my caresses, as I hugged him in my arms, exclaiming,

"_You_ aren't afraid of me, you dear thing!"

But he responded sympathetically, both with tongue and tail.

I had not frightened the little ladies away from the High Street, it
seemed. I saw them again two days later. They had been out as usual,
and some trifling mischance having happened to the Spanish saddle,
they called at Mr. Buckle's door for repairs. I was in the shop, and
could see the two little maidens as they sat hanging over their strap,
with a doll dressed very much like themselves between them. I crept
nearer to the door, where the quick grey eyes of the younger one
caught sight of me, and I heard her say in her peculiarly trenchant
tones--

"Why, there's that Boy again!"

I slipped a little to one side, and took up a tool and a bit of
leather with a pretence of working, hoping to be out of sight, and
yet to be able to look at the little white-beavered fairy, for whom my
fancy was in no way abated. But her keen-eyed sister saw me still, and
her next remark rang out with uncompromising distinctness--

"He's in the shop still. He's working. He must be a shop-boy!"

I dropped the tools, and rushed away to my sitting-room. My
mortification was complete, and it was of a kind that Rubens could not
understand. Fortunately for me, he simply went with my humour, without
being particular as to the reason of it, like the tenderest of women.

A day or two afterwards I went out with Rubens and Jemima Buckle for a
walk. Our way home lay through some flat green meads, crossed by a
stream, which, in its turn, was crossed by a little rustic bridge. As
we came into these fields we met a man whose face seemed familiar,
though I could not at first recall where I had seen him. Afterwards I
remembered that he was the tinsmith, and Jemima stayed to chat with
him for a few minutes, but Rubens and I strolled on.

It seemed an odd coincidence that, a few seconds after meeting the
tinsmith, I should meet the little white-beavered lady. She was
crossing the bridge. Her sister was not with her, nor the donkey, nor
the man-servant. She was walking with a nurse, and she carried a big
doll in her arms. The doll, as I have said before, was "got up"
wonderfully like its mistress. It had a miniature coat and c