CHAPTER XIII.

BREAKFAST WITH BO-PEEP.

After Maggie's restless night she got up early. The day promised to be
even hotter than the one before; but as the drawing-room faced west it
was comparatively cool at this hour.

Tildy brought her favorite young lady a cup of tea, and suggested that
she should go for an outing while Tildy herself freshened up the room.
Maggie thought that a good idea, and when she found herself in the
street her spirits rose a trifle.

A curious sort of fascination drew her in the direction of Martin's
shop. It was a very large corner shop, had several entrances, and at
this early hour the young shopmen and shopwomen were busy dressing the
windows; they were putting appetizing sweetmeats and cakes and
biscuits and all kinds of delectable things in the different windows
to tempt the passers-by.

Maggie felt a hot sense of burning shame rising to her cheeks as she
passed the shop. She was about to turn back, when whom should she see
standing in the doorway but the prosperous owner himself! He
recognized her immediately, and called out to her in his full, pompous
voice, "Come along here, Wopsy!"

The young shop-people turned to gaze in some wonder as the
refined-looking girl approached the fat, loud-mannered man.

"I'm in a hurry back to breakfast with my mother," said Maggie in her
coldest voice.

"Well, then, I will come along with you, my dear; I am just in the
mood. Little-sing, she will give me breakfast this morning. I'll be
back again in the shop soon after nine. It's a fine shop, ain't it,
Popsy?"

"It does seem large," said Maggie.

"It's the sort of shop," responded Martin, "that takes a deal of
getting. It's not done in a day, nor a month, nor a year. It takes a
lifetime to build up premises like these. It means riches, my
dear--riches." He rolled out the words luxuriously.

"I am sure it does," said Maggie, who felt that for her own sake she
must humor him.

"You think so, do you?" said Martin, giving her a keen glance.

"Of course I do," replied Maggie.

Martin gazed at her from head to foot. She was plain. He rather liked
her for that. He admired her, too, for, as he expressed it, standing
up to him. His dear Little-sing would never stand up to him. But this
girl was not the least like her mother. She had a lot of character;
Little-sing had none.

"You'd make an admirable accountant, Popsy," he said. "How would you
like to take that post by-and-by in my shop?"