Lippincott'S Magazine Of Popular Literature And Science, Volume 26 December, 1880. by Various None (smart ebook reader .txt) 📕

Hope She Will Be A Good Girl And Give You No Trouble.--Come Here,

Baubie,  And Promise Me To Do Everything You Are Told And Obey Mrs.

Duncan In everything."

"Yes,  Mem," Answered Bauble Reverently,  Almost Solemnly.

There Seemed To Be No Necessity For Further Exhortation. Baubie'S

Demeanor Promised Everything That Was Hoped For Or Wanted,  And,

Perfectly Contented,  Miss Mackenzie Turned Her Attention To The Minor

Details Of Wardrobe,  Etc.: "That Frock Is Good Enough If It Were Washed.

She Must Get Shoes And Stockings; And Then Underwear,  Too,  Of Some Sort

Will Be Wanted."

"That Will It," Responded The Matron; "But I Had Better Send Her At

Once To Get A Bath."

A Big Girl Was Summoned From A Back Room And Desired To Get Ready A Tub.

It Was The Ceremony Customary At The Reception Of A Neophyte--Customary,

And In General Very Necessary Too.

Baubie'S Countenance Fell Lower Still On Hearing This,  And She Blinked

Both Eyes Deprecatingly. Nevertheless,  When The Big Girl--Whom They

Called Kate--Returned,  Bringing With Her A Warm Whiff Of Steam And Soap,

She Trotted After Her Obediently And Silently.

After A While The Door Opened,  And Kate'S Yellow Head Appeared. "Speak

With Ye,  Mem?" She Said. "I Hae Her Washen Noo,  But What For Claes?"

"Eh Yes.--Miss Mackenzie,  We Can'T Put Her Back Into Those Dirty

Clothes."

"Oh No.--I'Ll Come And Look At Her Clothes,  Kate." As She Spoke Miss

Mackenzie Rose And Followed The Matron And Kate Into A Sort Of Kitchen

Or Laundry.

In The Middle Of The Floor Was A Tub Containing Miss Wishart Mid-Deep In

Soapsuds. Her Thick Hair Was All Soaking,  And Clung Fast To Her Head:

Dripping Locks Hung Clown Over Her Eyes,  Which Looked Out Through The

Tangle Patient And Suffering. She Glanced Up Quickly As Miss Mackenzie

Came In,  And Then Resigned Herself Passively Into Kate'S Hands,  Who With

A Piece Of Flannel Had Resumed The Scrubbing Process.

Miss Mackenzie Was Thinking To Herself That It Was Possibly Baubie

Wishart'S First Experience Of The Kind,  When She Observed The Child

Wince As If She Were Hurt.

"It'S Yon' As Hurts Her," Said Kate,  Calling The Matron'S Attention To

Something On The Child'S Shoulders. They Both Stooped And Saw A Long

Blue-And-Red Mark--A Bruise All Across Her Back. Nor Was This The Only

Evidence Of Ill-Treatment: Other Bruises,  And Even Scars,  Were To Be

Seen On The Lean Little Body.

"Puir Thing!" Said The Matron In a Low Tone,  Sympathizingly.

"Baubie,  Who Gave You That Bruise?" Asked Miss Mackenzie.

No Answer From Baubie,  Who Seemed To Be Absorbed In Watching The Drops

Running Off The End Of Her Little Red Nose,  Which Played The Part Of A

Gargoyle To The Rest Of Her Face.

Miss Mackenzie Repeated The Question,  Sternly Almost: "Bauble Wishart,  I

Insist Upon Knowing Who Gave You That Bruise."

"A Didna Gie'T To Mysel',  Mem." Was The Answer From The Figure In The

Soapsuds. There Was A Half Sob In The Voice As Of Terror,  And Her Manner

Had All The Appearance Of Ingenuousness.

The Matron And Miss Mackenzie Looked At Each Other Significantly,  And

Agreed Tacitly That There Was No Use In Pushing The Question.

"Od!" Said Kate,  Who Had Paused In The Act Of Taking A Warm Towel From

The Fireplace To Listen,  "A'Body Kens Ye Didna Gie It Till Yoursel',

Lassie."

"Where Are Her Clothes?" Said The Matron. "Oh,  Here. Yon Frock'S Good

Enough If It Was Washed; But,  Losh Me! Just Look At These For Clothes!"

She Was Exhibiting Some Indescribable Rags As She Spoke.

"Kate," Said Miss Mackenzie,  "Dress Her In The Lassie Grant'S Clothes:

They Are The Most Likely To Fit Her. Don'T Lose Time: I Want To See Her

Again Before I Go."

Kate Fished Up Her Charge,  All Smoking,  From The Soapsuds And Rubbed Her

Down Before The Fire. Then The Tangled Wet Hair Was Parted Evenly And

Smoothed Into Dark Locks On Either Side Of Her Face. Raiment Clean,  But

The Coarsest Of The Coarse,  Was Found For Her. A Brown Wincey Dress

Surmounted All. Shoes And Stockings Came Last Of All,  Probably In The

Order Of Importance Assigned To Them By Kate.

From The Arm-Chair Of The Matron'S Sitting-Room Miss Mackenzie Surveyed

Her Charge With Satisfaction. Baubie Looked Subdued,  Contented,  Perhaps

Grateful,  And Was Decidedly Uncomfortable. Every Vestige Of The

Picturesque Was Gone,  Obliterated Clean By Soap And Water,  And Kate'S

Hair-Comb,  A Broken-Toothed Weapon That Had Come Off Second Best In Its

Periodic Conflicts With Her Own Barley-Mow,  Had Disposed For Ever Of The

Wild,  Curly Tangle Of Hair. Her Eyes Had Red Rims To Them,  Caused By

Superfluous Soap And Water,  And In Its Present Barked Condition,  When

All The Dirt Was Gone,  Baubie'S Face Had Rather An Interesting,  Wistful

Expression. She Seemed Not To Stand Very Steadily In Her Boots,  Which

Were Much Too Big For Her.

Miss Mackenzie Surveyed Her With Great Satisfaction. The Brown Wincey

And The Coarse Apron Seemed To Her The Neophyte'S Robe,  Betokening

Baubie'S Conversion From Arab Nomadism To Respectability And From A

Vagabond Trade To Decorous Industry.

"Now,  Baubie,  You Can Knit: I Mean To Give You Needles And Worsted To

Knit Yourself Stockings. Won'T That Be Nice? I Am Sure You Never Knitted

Stockings For Yourself Before."

"Yes,  Mem," Replied Baubie,  Shuffling Her Feet.

"Now,  What Bed Is She To Get,  Mrs. Duncan? Let Us Go Up Stairs And See

The Dormitory."

"I Thought I Would Put Her In The Room With Kate: I Changed The Small

Bed In There. If You Will Just Step Up Stairs,  Miss Mackenzie?"

The Party Reached The Dormitory By A Narrow Wooden Staircase,  The

Whiteness Of Which Testified To The Scrubbing Powers Of Kate'S Red Arms

And Those Of Her Compeers. All The Windows Were Open,  And The East Wind

Came In at Its Will,  Nippingly Cold If Airy. They Passed Through A

Large,  Low-Ceilinged Room Into A Smaller One,  In Which Were Only Four

Beds: A Small Iron Stretcher Beside The Window Was Pointed Out As

Baubie'S. Miss Mackenzie Turned Down The Red-Knitted Coverlet And Looked

At The Blankets. They Were Perfectly Clean,  Like Everything Else,  And,

Like Everything Else Too,  Very Coarse And Very Well Worn.

"This Will Do Very Nicely.--Baubie,  This Is To Be Your Bed."

Baubie,  Fresh From The Lock-Up And Kennedy'S Lodgings,  Might Have Been

Expected To Show Some Trace Of Her Sense Of Comparison,  But Not A

Vestige Of Expression Crossed Her Face: She Looked Up In civil

Acknowledgment Of Having Heard: That Was All.

"I Shall Look In again In The Course Of A Week," Announced Miss

Mackenzie.--"Good-Bye,  Baubie: Do Everything Mrs. Duncan Tells You."

With This Valedictory Miss Mackenzie Left The Matron,  And Kate Attended

Her Down Stairs; And Baubie Was At Last Alone.

She Remained Standing Stock-Still When They Left Her By The

Bedside--When The Door,  Shut By Kate,  Who Went Out Last,  Hid Them From

Her View. She Listened In a Stupid Kind Of Way To The Feet Tramping On

The Bare Boards Of The Outer Dormitory And Down The Stairs: Then All Was

Still,  And Baubie Wishart,  Clean,  Clothed And Separated From Her Father

For The First Time In Her Life,  Was Left Alone To Consider How She Liked

"School." She Felt Cold And Strange And Lonely,  And For About Three

Minutes' Space She Abandoned Herself Without Reserve To The Sensation.

Then The Heavy Shoes Troubled Her,  And In a Fit Of Anger And Impatience

She Suddenly Began To Unlace One. Some Far-Off Sound Startled Her,  And

With A Furtive,  Timorous Look At The Door She Fastened It Up Again. No

One Came,  But Instead Of Returning To The Boot She Sprang To The Window,

And,  Mounting The Narrow Sill,  Prepared To Survey The Domain That Lay

Below It. There Was Not Much To See. The Window Looked Out On The Back

Green,  Which Was Very Much Like The Front,  Save That There Was No

Flagged Walk. A Few Stunted Poplars Ran Round The Walls: The Grass Was

Trodden Nearly All Off,  And From Wall To Wall Were Stretched Cords From

Which Fluttered A Motley Collection Of Linen Hung Out To Dry. There Was

No Looking Out Of It. Baubie Craned Her Adventurous Small Neck In all

Directions. One Side Of The Back Green Was Overlooked By A

Tenement-House; The Other Was Guarded By The Poplars And A Low Stone

Wall; At The Bottom Was A Dilapidated Outhouse. The Sky Overhead Was All

Dull Gray: A Formless Gray Sea-Mist Hurried Across It,  Driven By The

East Wind,  Which Found Time As Well To Fill,  As It Passed,  All The

Fluttering Garments On The Line And Swell Them Into Ridiculous

Travesties Of The Bodies They Belonged To,  Tossing Them The While With

High Mockery Into All Manner Of Weird Contortions.

Baubie Looked At Them Curiously,  And Wondered To Herself How Much They

Would All Pawn For--Considerably More Than Three Shillings No Doubt.

She Established That Fact To Her Own Satisfaction Ere Long,  Although She

Was No Great Arithmetician,  And She Sighed As She Built And Demolished

An Air-Castle In Her Own Mind. Though There Was But Little Attraction

For Her In The Room,  She Was About To Leave The Window When Her Eye Fell

On A Large Black Cat Crouched On The Wall,  Employed In Surveillance Of

The Linen Or Stalking Sparrows Or In deadly Ambush For A Hated Rival.

Meeting Baubie'S Glance,  He Sat Up And Stared At Her Suspiciously With A

Pair Of Round Yellow,  Unwinking Orbs.

"Ki! Ki! Ki!" Breathed Baubie Discreetly. She