Why, I don't
believe it cost you three ha'pence!"

"Tuppence," said Lizzie.

"Then you don't know when you're well off. Go away."

"'Tisn't that, miss--"

"What is it, then?"

Lizzie broke into a flood of tears.

Honoria, the younger by a year or so, stood and eyed her scornfully;
then turning on her heel marched into the house.

She was a just child. She went upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked her
wardrobe, and took out the doll, which was clad in blue silk, and
reposed in a dog-trough lined with the same material. Honoria had
recklessly cut up two handkerchiefs (for underclothing) and her
Sunday sash, and had made the garments in secret. They were
prodigies of bad needlework. With the face of a Medea she stripped
the poor thing, took it in her arms as if to kiss it, but checked
herself sternly. She descended to the terrace with the doll in one
hand and its original calico smock in the other.

"There, take your twopenny baby!"

Lizzie caught and strained it to her breast; covered its poor
nakedness hurriedly, and hugged it again with passionate kisses.

"You silly! Did you come all this way by yourself?"

Lizzie nodded. "Father thinks I'm home, minding the house. He's off
duty this evening, and he walked over here to the Bryanite Chapel, up
to Four Turnings. There's going to be a big Prayer Meeting to-night.
When his back was turned I slipped out after him, so as to keep him
in sight across the towans."

"Why?"

"I'm terrible timid. I can't bear to walk across the towans by
myself. You can't see where you be--they're so much alike--and it
makes a person feel lost. There's so many bones, too."

"Dead rabbits."

"Yes, and dead folks, I've heard father say."

"Well, you'll have to go back alone, any way."

Lizzie hugged the doll. "I don't mind so much now. I'll keep along
by the sea and run, and only open my eyes now and then. Here's your
money, miss."

She went off at a run. Honoria pocketed the half-crown and went back
to her fly-fishing. But after a few casts she desisted, and took her
rod to pieces slowly. The afternoon was hot and sultry. She sat
down in the shadow of the balustrade and gazed at the long, blank
facade of the house baking in the sun; at the tall, uncurtained
windows; at the peacock stalking to and fro like a drowsy sentinel.

"You are a beast of a house," she said contemplatively; "and I hate
every stone of you!"

She stood up and strolled toward the stab