dressing-gown, and suddenly clutched it to her breast and held it to her cheek.
“It’s warm. It’s soft!” she almost sobbed. “It’s real. It must be!”
She threw it over her shoulders, and put her feet into the slippers.
“They are real, too. It’s all real!” she cried. “I am NOT—I am NOT dreaming!”
She almost staggered to the books and opened the one which lay upon the top. Something was written on the flyleaf—just a few words, and they were these:
“To the little girl in the attic. From a friend.”
life. An entire sixpence, he was sure, would mean affluence for evermore. As he crossed the strip of red carpet laid across the pavement from the door to the carriage, he had this very sixpence in the pocket of his very short man-o-war trousers; And just as Rosalind Gladys got into the vehicle and jumped