Sophia thought herself fortunate when she saw Mr Enderby turn out of the toy-shop with his youngest nephew, a round-faced boy, still in petticoats, perched upon his shoulder. Mr Enderby bowed, but did not seem to heed her call: he jumped through the turnstile, and proceeded to canter along the church lane amidst the glee of the child so rapidly, that Sophia was obliged to give up the hope of being the first to tell him the news. It was very provoking: she should have liked to see how he would look. She was sure of a delighted listener in Mrs Howell, to whom no communication ever came amiss: but there was a condition to Mrs Howell's listening--that she should be allowed to tell her own news first. When she found that Sophia wanted to match some worsteds, she and her shop-woman exchanged sympathetic glances--Mrs Howell sighing, with her head on the right side, and Miss Miskin groaning, with her head on the left side. "Are you ill, Mrs Howell?" asked Sophia. "It shook me a little, I confess, ma'am, hearing that you wanted worsteds. We have no relief, ma'am, from ladies wanting worsteds." "No relief, day or night," added Miss Miskin. "Day or night! Surely you do not sell worsteds in the night-time?" said Sophia. "Not sell them, ma'am; only match them. The matching them is the trial, I assure you. If you could only hear my agent, ma'am--the things he has to tell about people in my situation--how they are going mad, all over the country, with incessantly matching of worsteds, now that that kind of work is all the fashion. And nothing more likely, ma'am, for there is no getting one's natural rest. I am for ever matching of worsteds in my dreams; and when I wake, I seem to have had no rest: and, as you see, directly after breakfast, ladies come for worsteds." "And Miss Anderson's messenger left a whole bundle of skeins to be matched for her young ladies, as early as eight this morning," declared Miss Miskin: "and so we go on." "It will not be for long, I dare say, Mrs Howell. It is a fashionable kind of work, that we may soon grow tired of." "Dear me, ma'am, think how long former generations went on with it! Think of our grandmothers' work, ma'am, and how we are treading in their steps. We have the beautifulest patterns now, I assure you. Miss Miskin will confirm that we sold one, last week, the very day we had it--the interior of Abbotsford, with Sir Walter, and the furniture, and the dogs, just like life, I assure you." "That was beautiful," said Miss Miskin, "but not to compare--" "Oh, dear, no! not to compare, Miss Grey, with one that we were just allowed the sight of--not a mere pattern, but a finished specimen--and I never saw anything so pathetic.--I declare I was quite affected, and so was Miss Miskin. It was `By the Rivers of Babylon,' most sweetly done! There were the harps all in cross-stitch, ma'am, and the willows all in tent-stitch--I never saw anything so touching."