"Stay, dear Thames!—stay!" cried the little girl. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out. There were no mourners. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. Earles glanced at it, and his eyes flashed with anger.
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