I have learned
about it now, and I know better than I did. May I--oh, may I try
again?"
She waited in an agony of suspense for the answer; and when it came,
and the voice said gently, "It is your turn next," she cried aloud,--
"Not yet, oh, not yet! Let me wait. Let me try again."
And there she was, with her cheeks all flushed and tear-stained, her
hair in loose, damp curls about her temples, and her frock all rumpled
and crushed in her mother's arms; and her mother was saying,--
"Bad dreams, sweetheart? You have had a fine, long nap; but it is your
turn next, and I have had to wake you. Come, dear! Now we must see if
we cannot get a good likeness of you,--just as you really are."
WHAT HAPPENED TO LIONEL.
It is not to be supposed that such things happen every day. If they
were to happen every day, one would get so familiar with them that they
would not seem at all extraordinary; and if there were no extraordinary
things in the world, how very dull one would be, to be sure! As it
is-- But to go back.
The beggar had stood before the area-gate for a long time, and no one
had paid the slightest attention to him. He was an old man with long
gray hair, and a faded, ragged coat, whose tatters fluttered madly to
and fro every time the wind blew. He was very tall and gaunt, and his
back was bent. On his head was a big slouched hat, whose brim fell
forward over his eyes and almost hid them entirely in its shadow.
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