A day or two afterwards I went out with Rubens and Jemima Buckle for a
walk. Our way home lay through some flat green meads, crossed by a
stream, which, in its turn, was crossed by a little rustic bridge. As
we came into these fields we met a man whose face seemed familiar,
though I could not at first recall where I had seen him. Afterwards I
remembered that he was the tinsmith, and Jemima stayed to chat with
him for a few minutes, but Rubens and I strolled on.
It seemed an odd coincidence that, a few seconds after meeting the
tinsmith, I should meet the little white-beavered lady. She was
crossing the bridge. Her sister was not with her, nor the donkey, nor
the man-servant. She was walking with a nurse, and she carried a big
doll in her arms. The doll, as I have said before, was "got up"
wonderfully like its mistress. It had a miniature coat and cape and
frills, it had leggings, it had a white plush bonnet (so my wife
enables me to affirm), it had hair just the colour of the little
lady's locks.
As she crossed the bridge, she seemed much pleased by the running of
the water beneath her feet, and saying, "Please let Dolly 'ook," in
her pretty broken tones, she pushed her doll through the rustic work,
holding it by its sash.
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