Mercy was in a dilemma.
Their clock was broken, hopelessly broken.

It had been packed in too frail a box; and heavier boxes placed above it had crashed through, making a complete wreck of the whole thing,--frame, works, all.

It was a high, old-fashioned Dutch clock, and had stood in the corner of their sitting-room ever since Mercy could recollect.

It had belonged to her father's father, and had been her mother's wedding gift from him.
"It's easy enough to get a clock that will keep good time," thought Mercy, as she walked along; "but, oh, how I shall miss the dear old thing! It looked like a sort of belfry in the corner.

I wonder if there are any such clocks to be bought anywhere nowadays ?" She stopped presently before a jeweller's and watchmaker's shop in the Brick Row, and eagerly scrutinized the long line of clocks standing in the window.