The Rectory Children | Page 2

back the little green baize curtain which hung before the
small window between the shop and the parlour, and was peering in,
her nose flattened against the glass. She was allowed to do this, but she
was not allowed to run out and in of the shop without leave, and at this
time of the day, or evening, even when there were few customers, she
knew that her father and mother were generally busy. There were late
parcels to put up for the little errand-boy to leave on his way home;
there was the shop to tidy, and always a good many entries to make in
the big ledger. Very often there were letters to write and send off,
ordering supplies needed for the shop, or books not in stock, which

some customer had asked for.
It was a bookseller's and stationer's shop; the only one worthy of the
name at Seacove. And Mr. Fairchild did a pretty good business, though
certainly, as far as the actual book part of it was concerned, people read
and bought far fewer books thirty years ago than now. And books were
much dearer. People wrote fewer letters too; paper and envelopes were
dearer also. Still, one way and another it was not a bad business of its
kind in a modest way, though strict economy and care were required to
make a livelihood out of it. And some things had made this more
difficult than would otherwise have been the case. Delicate health
perhaps most of all. Mr. Fairchild was not very strong, and little
Celestina had been fragile enough as a baby and a tiny girl, though now
she was growing stronger. No wonder that a great share of both work
and care fell on Celestina's mother, and this the little girl already
understood, and tried always to remember.
But it was dull and lonely sometimes. She had few companions, and for
some months past she had not gone to school, as a rather serious illness
had made her unable to go out in bad weather. She did not mind this
much; she liked to do lessons by herself, for father or mother to correct
when they had time, and there was no child at school she cared for
particularly. Still poor Celestina was pining for companionship without
knowing it. Perhaps, though mother said little, she understood more
about it than appeared.
And 'Oh, mother, mother, do come,' the child repeated, as she peered
through the glass.
There were one or two customers in the shop still. One of them
Celestina knew by sight. It was Mr. Redding, the organist of the church.
He was choosing some music-paper, and talking as he did so, but the
pair of ears behind the window could not hear what he said, though by
his manner it seemed something not only of interest to himself but to
his hearers also.
'I wish I could hear what he's saying,' thought the little maiden, 'or most
of all, I wish he'd go and that other man too--oh, he's going, but Mr.

Redding is asking for something else now! Oh, if only mother would
come, or if I might turn on the gas higher. I think it would be nicer to
have candles, like Fanny Wells has in her house. Gas is only nice when
it's very high turned on, and mother says it costs such a lot then. I do so
want to show mother the cloaks and hats.'
She turned back at last, wearied of waiting and watching. The fire was
burning brightly, that was some comfort, and Celestina sat down on the
rug in front of it, propping her two little dolls against the fender.
'To-morrow,' she said to herself, 'as soon as I've made a frock for
Eleanor, I'll have a tea-party. Eleanor and Amy shall be new friends
coming to tea for the first time--if only the parlour chairs weren't too
big for the table!' she sighed deeply. 'They can't look nice and real,
when they're so high up that their legs won't go underneath. People
don't make our tables and chairs like that--I don't see why they can't
make doll-house ones properly. Now, if I was a carpenter I'd make a
doll-house just like a real house--I could make it so nice.'
She began building doll-houses--her favourite castles in the air--in
imagination. But now and then she wanted another opinion, there were
knotty points to decide. As 'all roads,' according to the old proverb,
'lead to Rome,' so all Celestina's meditations ended in the old cry, 'If
only mother would come.'
The door opened at last--gently, so gently that the little girl knew it
could be no one else but mother. She sprang up.
'Oh, mother, I am so glad you've come. I've been so