After a minute or two, however, she would get weary of this game; the red and the blue would begin to dazzle her eyes; the little hands would grow too weak to toy among the bright trifles; the head would get tired with trying to raise itself over the edge of the sheet; and when all these things came to pass, Lally would drop the latest scrap of silk—heave a heavy sigh—look piteously at Bessie, and declare “Lally’s very bad aden.” “No, you are not,” Bessie invariably answered; “you are scheming—you like being in bed this cold weather, and having nice things to eat, and being made much of; but wait a little. Some fine morning I will rout you up, and chase you about the lawn, and run you to earth in the Hollow. Won’t I; do you think I won’t?” and the lovely face was laid on the pillow beside the child, and Lally made nests for herself in Bessie’s hair, and was fain to fall asleep holding on by her pretty nurse’s gown, or sleeve, or collar. “Oh Lor, Miss, ain’t she like wax-work!” remarked Priscilla Dobbin, the first time she beheld Lally sitting up on Miss Ormson’s lap—held in Miss Ormson’s arms. “She is much more like bone-work to my mind,” answered Bessie, kissing the little white arms; “but we are going to feed her up, and send her to market next time her papa goes to London—are not we, Lally?” And Lally, complaisant as ever, answered, while busily engaged in counting over the buttons on Bessie’s dress, “Iss.” CHAPTER V. MR. BLACK’S TARTAR. Peter Black, Esquire, of Stanley Crescent, sat in the Secretary’s room at the temporary offices of the Protector Bread and Flour Company, Limited, 220, Dowgate Hill, looking as much like a thrashed hound as it was possible for so pompous, and prosperous, and self-sufficient a gentleman to look. As a rule, wherever he went, and with whatsoever manner of person he came in contact, Mr. Black comported himself as if, so Mr. Ormson familiarly said, “he was cock of the walk;” but now Mr. Black had met with a bigger and stronger, and more arrogant cock than himself; a bird whose beak was strong and spurs sharp—who was accustomed to lording it over creatures of his own species—who would have been immensely astonished had Mr. Black flown at him, and disputed his supremacy; but who, had such an affront been offered, would soon have cowed and discomforted his adversary. Mr. Black, however, mindful perhaps of his victories on other fields, was content to rest on his laurels, and refrained from striving to wrest any from the crown that bound in City circles the brow of Allan Stewart, Esquire, of Walsey Manor, Layford; Careyby Castle, Perthshire; Hyde Park Gardens, London; and 92, King’s Arms Yard, Moorgate Street.