Desire sent down to Leicester Place for Bel’s box; for Cheeps also.  Bel wrote a note to Miss Smalley, asking her to take in Bartholomew.  What came of that, I may as well tell here as anywhere; it will not take long.  It is not really an integral part of our story, but I think you will like to know.

Miss Smalley herself answered the note.  It was easy enough to evade any close questions on her part; she thought it was “a good deal more suitable for Bel not to stay at Mrs. Pimminy’s alone, and she wasn’t an atom surprised to know she had concluded so;” besides, Miss Smalley was very much preoccupied with her own concerns.

“There was the room,” she said; “and there was the furniture.  Now, would Bel Bree let the things to her, just as they stood, if she,—­well, if Mr. Sparrow,—­for she didn’t mind telling Bel that she and Mr. Sparrow had made up their minds to look after each other’s comfort as well as they could the rest of their lives, seeing how liable we all were to need comfort and company, at fires and things;—­if Mr. Sparrow hired the room of Mrs. Pimminy?  And as to Bartholomew, Mr. Sparrow wouldn’t mind him, and she didn’t think Bartholomew would object to Mr. Sparrow.  Cats rather took to him, he thought.  They would make the creature welcome, and make much of him; and not expect it to be considered at all.”

Bel concluded the arrangement.  She thought it would be a comfort to know that Aunt Blin’s little place was not all broken up, but that somebody was happy there; that Bartholomew had his old corner of the rug, and his airings on the sunny window-sill; and Miss Smalley—­Mrs. Sparrow that was to be—­would pay her fifteen dollars a year for the things, and make them last.

“That carpet?” she had said; “why, it hadn’t begun to pocket yet; and there hadn’t been any breadths changed; and the mats saved the hearth-front and the doorway, and she could lay down more.  And it would turn, when it came to that, and last on—­as long as ever.  There was six years in that carpet, without darning, if there was a single day; and Mr. Sparrow always took off his boots and put on his slippers, the minute ever he got in.”

Desire’s library was full on Wednesday evenings, now.  The girls came for instruction, for social companionship, for comfort.  On the table in the dining-room were almost always little parcels waiting, ready done up for one and another; little things Desire and Hazel “thought of” beforehand, as what they “might like and find convenient; and what they”—­Desire and Hazel—­“happened to have.”  Sometimes it was a paper of nice prunes for a delicate appetite that was kept too much to dry, economical food.  Perhaps it was a jar of “Liebig’s Extract” for Emma Hollen, that she might make beef-tea for herself; or a remnant of flannel that “would just do for a couple of undervests.”  It was sure to be something just right; something with a real thought in it.

And out here in the dining-room, as they took their little parcels,—­or lingering in the hall aside from the others, or stopping in a corner of the library,—­they would have their “words” with Desire and Hazel and Sylvie; always some confidence, or some question, or some telling of how this or that had gone on or turned out.