pink cotton. Celestina's little fingers were very clever at crochet.

'Oh, mother, mother,' she said half aloud, '_do_ come.'

She had drawn 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.