The next morning Mr. Spelt tried the string again, watched it better, and by a succession of jerks, not slow movements, lest, notwithstanding the cunning of the color, she should see the string, drew her step by step in the eagerness of wonder; as well as of that appetite which is neither hunger nor thirst, and yet concerned with the same organs, but for which we have, so far as I am aware, no word, I mean the love of sweets, to the very foot of his eyrie. When she laid hold of the object desired at the door-post, he released it by a final tug against the eye of the staple. Before she could look up from securing it, another lump of rock fell at her feet. Then she did look up, and saw the smiling face of the tailor looking out (once more like an angel over a cloudy beam) over the threshold, if threshold it could properly be called, of his elevated and stairless door. She gave back a genuine whole-faced smile, and turned and scudded. The tailor's right hand shuttled with increased vigor all the rest of that day. CHAPTER XXV. MR. FULLER. One evening Lucy was sitting as usual with Mattie, for the child had no friends but her and grannie; her only near relative was a widowed sister of her father, whom she did not like. She was scarcely so well as she had been for the last few days, and had therefore gone early to bed, and Lucy sat beside her to comfort her. By this time she had got the room quite transformed in appearance--all the books out of it, a nice clean paper up on the walls, a few colored prints from the _Illustrated London News_ here and there, and, in fact, the whole made fit for the abode of a delicate and sensitive child. "What shall I read to-night, Mattie?" she asked. For Mattie must always have something read to her out of the New Testament before she went to sleep; Mr. Spelt had inaugurated the custom. "Oh, read about the man that sat in his Sunday clothes," said Mattie. "I don't know that story," returned Lucy. "I wish dear mother was here," said Mattie, with the pettishness of an invalid. "He would know what story I mean--that he would." "Would you like to see Mr. Spelt?" suggested Lucy. "He was asking about you not an hour ago." "Why didn't he come up, then? I wonder he never comes to see me." "I was afraid you weren't strong enough for it, Mattie. But I will run and fetch him now, if he's not gone." "Oh, yes; do, please. I know he's not gone, for I have not heard his step yet. I always watch him out of the court when I'm in bed. He goes right under me." Lucy went, and Mr. Spelt came gladly. "Well, mother," said Mattie, holding out a worn little cloud of a hand, "how do you do?" Mr. Spelt could hardly answer for emotion. He took the little hand in his, and it seemed to melt away in his grasp, till he could hardly feel it.