“What a splendid stew, Loo!” said Mrs. Ducksacre, seeming to smell it; “and so you want a haʼporth of taties, and a farthingʼs worth of onions. And you shall have them, my dear, and as good a three farthings’ worth as ever was put up in London. Where are you going to put them all?” Loo opened her sore throat, and pointed down it. She had not yet lost her appetite; and that child did love tripe so. “No, no, I donʼt mean that, Loo. I know you have a nice room inside; though some will be for mother, wonʼt it, now? I mean, how are you going to carry it home?” “In Looʼs pinney,” replied the child, delighted with her success; for ever so many people had told her, that the Ducksacres now were getting so high, they would soon leave off making farthings–worths; and any tradesman who does that is above the sphere of the street–child. “My dear, your pinney wonʼt hold them, potatoes are so cheap now”—she had just sworn they were awfully dear to a person she disliked—“I am sure you canʼt carry a haʼporth. Oh, Mr. Newman, you are so good–natured”—Cradock was just coming in, rather glum from another failure—“I really donʼt believe you would think you were bemeaning yourself by going home with this poor little atom.” “I should rather hope I would not,” replied Cradock, looking grand. “Oh, I did not know. I beg your pardon, Iʼm sure. I would go myself, only Sally is out, and the boy gone home ever so long ago. I beg your pardon, Iʼm sure, Mr. Newman; I thought you were so good–natured.” “Mrs. Ducksacre,” said Cradock, “you utterly misunderstand me. I replied to the form of your sentence, perhaps, rather than to its meaning. What I meant was, that I should rather hope I would not think it below me to go home with this little dear. If I could suppose it any disgrace to me, I should deserve to be kicked by your errand–boy all round this shop, Mrs. Ducksacre; and I am surprised you misunderstand me so. Why, I know this little girl well; and her name is Louisa Jupp.” “Tiss Loo,” said the little child, standing up on tiptoe, and spreading out her arms to Cradock. All the children loved him, as the little ones at Nowelhurst would run after Mr. Rosedew. Children are even better judges of character than dogs. “Why, you poor little soul,” said Crad, as he seated her on his strong right arm with her little cheek to his, and she drew a thousand straws of light through her lashes from the gas–jet, which she had never yet been so close to, “how hot and dry your lips are! I hope you are not taking the—sickness”—he was going to say “fever,” but feared to frighten Loo. “Mother fray,” cried the small girl, proud of the importance accruing to her, “Loo dot wever; Irishers dot bad wever on the foor below mother. Loo det nice thins, and lay abed, if me dot the wever.”