no mistake, wusser I dessay for me, and quite right too. Mother'll never say I'm fit for a nussery after makin' sich a fool of myself."

And in spite of her courage, the tears began to trickle down Sarah's face. Peggy looked so white and tiny, lying there almost in her arms, that it made her heart ache to see her. So she shut her own eyes and tried to think what to do. And the thinking grew gradually confused and mixed up with all sorts of other thinkings. Sarah fancied she heard her mother calling her, and she tried to answer, but somehow the words would not come.

And at last, though she was really so anxious and distressed, the quiet and the mild air, and the idleness perhaps, to which none of the Simpkins family were much accustomed, all joined together and by degrees hushed poor Light Smiley to sleep, her arms clasped round Peggy as if to protect her from any possible danger.

It would have been a touching picture, had there been any one there to see. Unluckily, not merely for the sake of the picture, but for that of the children themselves, there was no one.

N

CHAPTER XII

THE SHOES-LADY AGAIN

"I'll love you through the happy years,

Till I'm a nice old lady."

Poems written for a Child.

WHEN they woke, both of them at the same moment it seemed, though probably one had roused the other without knowing it, the sun had gone, the sky looked dull, it felt chilly and strange. Peggy had thought it must be past dinner-time before they had sat down to rest; it seemed now as if it must be past tea-time too!

Sarah started up, Peggy feebly clinging to her.

"Oh dear, dear," said Sarah, “I shouldn't have gone to sleep, and it's got that cold!" She was shivering herself, but Peggy seemed much the worse of the two. She was white and pinched looking, and as if she were half stupefied.

I

I'm so cold," she said,. " and so hungry. thought I was in bed at home. I do so want to go home. I'm sure it's very late, Light Smiley; do take me home."

"I'm sure, missy, it's what I want to do," said poor Sarah. "I'm afeared it's a-going to rain, and whatever 'ull we do then? You wouldn't wait 'ere a minute, would you, while I run to see if there's a road near?"

"No, no," said Peggy, "I won't stay alone. I'm very, very frightened, Light Smiley, and I think I'm going to die."

Oh Lor', missy, don't you say that," said Sarah, in terror. "If you can't walk I'll carry you."

"I'll try to walk," said Peggy, picking up some spirit when she saw Sarah's white face.

And then the two set off again, dazed and miserable, very different from the bright little pair that had started up Fernley Road that morning.

Things, however, having got to the worst, began to mend, or at least were beginning to mend for them, though Peggy and Sarah did not just yet know it. Not far from the edge of the field where they were, a little bridle-path led into a lane, and a

few yards down this lane brought them out upon Fernley Road again at last.

"I see the mountings," cried Peggy, "oh, Light Smiley, Peggy sees the mountings. P'raps we won't die, oh p'raps we'll get home safe again."

But though she had been trying to be brave, now that she began to hope again, it was too much for her poor little nerves-Peggy burst into loud sobbing.

"Oh, dear missy, try not to cry," said Sarah. "There-there-where's your hankercher ?" and she dived into Peggy's pocket in search of it. And as she pulled it out, out tumbled at the same time the two little scarlet shoes, falling on the ground.

"Oh Light Smiley, my red shoes. They'll be all spoilt and dirtied," said Peggy, as well as she could, for Sarah was dabbing the handkerchief all over her face.

Sarah stooped to pick them up; both children were too much engaged to notice the sound of wheels coming quickly along the quiet road. But the sight of a speck of dirt on one of the shoes set Peggy off crying again, and she cried for once pretty loudly. The wheels came nearer, and then stopped, and this made Sarah look round. A pony-carriage driven by