"Thank you," answered the old-fashioned creature. "But don't be putting yourself to any expense about it, for I am not easy to please." And she lifted her hand to her head and gave a deep sigh, as if it was a very sad fact indeed. "I wish I was easier to please," she added, to herself; but Mr. Fuller heard her as he left the room. "She's a very remarkable child that, Mr. Kitely--too much so, I fear," he said, reëntering the shop. "I know that," returned the bookseller, curtly, almost angrily. "I wish she wasn't." "I beg your pardon. I only wanted--" "No occasion at all," interrupted Mr. Kitely. "I only wanted," Mr. Fuller persisted, "to ask you whether you do not think she had better go out of town for a while." "I dare say. But how am I to send her? The child has not a relation but me--and an aunt that she can't a-bear; and that wouldn't do--would it, sir? She would fret herself to death without someone she cared about." "Certainly it wouldn't do. But mightn't Miss--I forget her name--" "Miss Burton, I dare say you mean." "I mean Miss Burton. Couldn't she help you? Is she any relation of yours?" "None whatever. Nor she's not like it. I believe she's a stray, myself." "What _do_ you mean, Mr. Kitely?" asked Mr. Fuller, quite bewildered now. "Well, sir, I mean that she's a stray angel," answered Mr. Kitely, smiling; "for she ain't like anyone else I know of but that child's mother, and she's gone back to where she came from--many's the long year." "I don't wonder at your thinking that of her if she's as good as she looks," returned Mr. Fuller. And bidding the bookseller good-morning, he left the shop and walked home, cogitating how the child could be got into the country. Next morning he called--earlier, and saw Lucy leaving the court just as he was going into the shop. He turned and spoke to her. "Fancy a child, Miss Burton," he said, "that does not care about flowers--and her heart full of religion too! How is she to consider the lilies of the field? She knows only birds in cages; she has no idea of the birds of the air. The poor child has to lift everything out of that deep soul of hers, and the buckets of her brain can't stand such hard work." "I know, I know," answered Lucy. "But what can I do?"