"It must be done, I suppose," said Seth, with a sigh of comical resignation, "or Pharaoh'll never come to you again." "Never," declared Sally. "Then there's no help for it. You can ask all the little ragamuffins in the neighbourhood to the christening." "O, Daddy, you are good--you are good!" and out of the depth of her gratitude Sally put her arms round Seth's neck, and kissed him half-a-dozen times without meeting with any opposition. In good truth Seth was enjoying this new state of things, and would not have liked, now that he had tasted the sweets of companionship, to be compelled to relapse into his old ways. There was nothing to regret in his past life; he had never loved, and therefore had no melancholy remembrance to make the present bitter. He had contracted neither violent friendships nor violent enmities. He had never been wronged--which frequently leads a generous nature to misanthropy; he had never wronged--which often leads to meanness many a nature capable of higher development. Thus, having escaped rocks upon which other men are wrecked, or soured, or embittered for life, he found himself a middle-aged man, the tenderest chords of whose nature had never till now been touched. Sally's kisses thrilled him tenderly. He did not return them, nor did he exhibit any feeling, but every pulse of his being responded to this mark of affection. "Daddy," said Sally. "Yes, Sal." "You're sure?" "About next Monday? Oh, yes. We'll have the christening." "I want to tell you somethink." "Out with it." "I've got two shillings." "Saved up in my frock. Feel 'em." Seth felt them. "Mother give 'em to me before she went away. I may spend 'em, mayn't I?" "For the christening?" "For baby." "Well, no; I should say not. Here's two shillings more; spend _them_, and keep yours." "But I want to--I want to! It's my money, and I want to spend it on baby." "You're an obstinate little sinner," said Seth, after some consideration, "but it appears to me that you've generally a reason for what you do. So do it. You can take my money as well, and spend it all if you like." "We'll have a regular feast," said Sally gleefully. Issuing forth the next morning, Sally commenced operations. The first acquaintance she met was Betsy Newbiggin. Betsy was pursuing her usual avocation of selling liquorice-water, at the rate of two teaspoonfuls for one pin. This industrious trader was a genius in her way, and displayed unusual qualifications for driving a good bargain. The bosom of her frock was half full of pins, and she trotted about with her breastplate as proud as an Indian of his trophy of scalps.