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On our way to the bakery, which is a daily walk with us, we always glance at a little cot in a grassy lane just off the fore street.

In one half of this humble dwelling Mrs.Davidson keeps a slender stock of shop-worn articles,--pins, needles, threads, sealing-wax, pencils, and sweeties for the children, all disposed attractively upon a single shelf behind the window.
Across the passage, close to the other window, sits day after day an old woman of eight-six summers who has lost her kinship with the present and gone back to dwell for ever in the past.

A small table stands in front of her rush-bottomed chair, the old family Bible rests upon it, and in front of the Bible are always four tiny dolls, with which the trembling old fingers play from morning till night.

They are cheap, common little puppets, but she robes and disrobes them with tenderest care.