He proved himself a much better nurse than Bootles. He gathered the child on his left arm and marched off to the anteroom, in front of which the officers were standing about, waiting for church. They set up a shout at the sight of him, and crowded round to inspect the new importation. Mademoiselle Mignon bore the inspection calmly, conscious perhaps—as she was such a knowing little person—of the effect of her big, blue, star-like eyes under the white fur of her cap. “What a pity she ain’t twenty years older!” was the first comment, and it was said in such a tone of genuine regret that all the fellows laughed again. Miss Mignon gobbled with satisfaction. “Seems a jolly little beggar,” said another. “Chut—chut—chut!” remarked Miss Mignon. “Never saw such a jolly little beggar in all my life,” asserted another voice. “Pretty work she’ll make in the regiment sixteen or seventeen years hence,” grumbled old Garnet. “Ah, well, nevah mind, Garnet—nevah you mind, Major Garnet, sir,” cried Hartog, “we shall all be dead by then;” but this being an exceedingly old and threadbare regimental joke was instantly snubbed in the face of the new and substantial one. “Has it any teeth?” demanded Miles, the orderly officer for the day. “Don’t know. Open your mouth, little one,” said Lacy, gravely. At this point Miss Mignon made a delighted lunge in the direction of the belt across Miles’s breast. Lacy shouted, “Whoa, whoa,” and Miles immediately backed out of reach. Miss Mignon’s mouth went dismally down, until Lacy remembered the knob of his whip, and held it up for delectation. “Boo—boo!” she crowed. “By Jove! She can half say Bootles already,” ejaculated Hartog. “And here he comes.” “Now, then,” Bootles called out, “have any of you fellows made up your mind to own this little baggage?” “No; none of us,” they laughed; but one man, Gilchrist by name, said, with a sneer, he should rather think not, and added two unnecessary words—“_workhouse brat_!” Bootles turned, and looked down upon him in profoundest contempt. “My dear chap,” he said, coolly, “to charge _you_ with being the father of _that_ child,” pointing with his whip to the picture in Lacy’s arms, “would be a compliment on your personal appearance which I should never, under any circumstances, have dreamed of paying you.” “I’ll tell you what it is,” said Hartog afterwards to Lacy, “Bootles is a dashed good fellow—one of the best fellows in the world. I don’t know that there’s another I’d trust as far or as thoroughly; but all the same, Bootles is sometimes best left alone, and, for my part, I think Gilchrist and every one else had best leave him alone about this youngster.” “Ya—as,” returned Lacy; then began to laugh. “Oh! but it was fine, though, about ‘personal appearance.’” And then he added, “Ugly little beast!” CHAPTER IV.