"Here's a young lady and gentleman coming with money in their pockets." Lizzie turned.

She was a child of fourteen, perhaps; brown skinned, with shy, wild eyes.

Her stockings were torn, her ragged clothes decorated with limp bunches of bluebells, and her neck and wrists with twisted daisy chains.

She skipped up to Honoria and held out a basket.

Within it, in a bed of fern, lay a May-doll among a few birds' eggs--a poor wooden thing in a single garment of pink calico.
"Give me something for my doll, miss!" she begged.
"Aw, that's too tame," one of the girls called out, and pitched her voice to the true beggar's whine: "Spare a copper! My only child, dear kind lady, and its only father broke his tender neck in a blasting accident, and left me twelve to maintain!" All the girls began laughing again.