“Little one,” said Harcourt, “I have brought you a very kind, good friend, who will be a mother to you, until we can find your lady.” The waif looked and “took stock” of the woman, and then solemnly expressed her approval. “Yes, I like her.” “She will get you some clean clothes to wear,” added Harcourt. “And let me have a bath first?” inquired the child. “Yes, indeed!” Annie exclaimed, breaking into the conversation, “that will be the very first thing I will do for you, and right away, too.” “Oh, thank you, ma’am; thank you ever so much! I like you ever so much, too. I think—yes, I am quite sure you are possessed of common sense.” Annie looked surprised, and then laughed merrily. The child was rather disconcerted, and hastened to say, in explanation: “Of course, I only meant that you knew I could not go back to Lady in this trim, and I could not put on clean clothes without taking a bath first after this,” she added, taking up the end of her drapery with a grimace. “Of course you couldn’t,” assented Harcourt. “If I did, I don’t know what Lady would think of me. Or even Ducky Darling.” “And now, my little girl, will you stay here with this good friend, Mrs. Moss, while I go uptown?” inquired the young man. “Will you come back—faithful—and take me to Lady?” “My dear child, I shall have to find out where your lady is first. But don’t you be afraid. I know how to find her.” “She lives in Goblin Hall. But, of course, she may be on a visit, or she may be away hunting all about for me.” “Yes; I will inquire.” “Oh, now, will you really? this very, very day??” “Indeed, I will, my dear. Indeed, I will, my dear, this very day. Now, good-by, until I see you again,” he added, stooping and kissing her on the forehead. “Hurry off, Mr. William; I will take care of the little girl,” said Annie. “Yes,” said Harcourt to himself, as he left the house, “if I should be an hour late I should be ‘docked’ half a day. But that dear, good woman, she will lose her whole day’s work, I fear. But, after all, she will like it,” he added. But Annie did not lose her whole day’s work. She led the child into her own room, prepared a warm bath in a large washtub, put her into it, gave her a sponge and a bit of soap, and said: “Now, play about in that, like a little duck in a pond, to your heart’s content, while I go and throw this tangle of fever away,” she said, as she left the child splashing in the water, took the tongs and picked up the shawl with them, carried it into Harcourt’s room, and threw it out of the back window. “I had no means of burning such a thing in my small stove. But I am afraid it will become the treasure-trove of some other ragpicker, and so fulfill its destiny of a pestilence breeder,” she said, with a sigh, as she closed the window. When she returned she found the child still luxuriating in the warm bath.