As for the colonel, when he saw Mrs. Nurse gathering herself up with rueful looks at the drain tile, he simply roared, and Miss Mignon chimed in as if it were the finest joke in the world. “That was a smash,” she remarked, from her proud position on Lacy’s shoulder, “just like Humpty Dumpty”—a comment which gave that estimable person the name of Mrs. Humpty Dumpty as long as she remained with the regiment. A few weeks after this the annual inspection came off, and Miss Mignon, resenting the lengthened absence of her Bootles, again managed to escape from her nurse, and pattered boldly, as fast as her small feet would carry her, right into the mess-room, where Bootles was sitting, just opposite the general, at the late lunch. Miss Mignon not seeing him at first, wandered coolly behind the row of scarlet-clad backs, until she spied him at the other side of the table. Then, having no awe whatever of inspecting officers, she wedged herself in between his chair and the colonel’s with a triumphant and joyous laugh. The general gave a great start, and the colonel laughed. Bootles, in dismay, jumped up, and came quickly round the table to take her away. “Well, you little rogue,” said the colonel, reaching a nectarine for her. “What do you want?” “I wanted Bootles, sir,” said Miss Mignon, confidentially. “And nurse falled asleep, so I tooked French leave.” Almost the only peculiarity in her speech was the habit of making all verbs regular. “And who are you, my little maid?” the general asked, in extreme amusement. “Oh, I’m Miss Mignon,” with dignity. The old general fairly chuckled with delight, and as he had put his arm round the child, Bootles, who was standing behind, could not very well take her away. “Oh, Miss Mignon—hey? And whom do you belong to?” “Why, to Bootles,” in surprise at his ignorance. “To Bootles? And who is Bootles?” “Bootles is Bootles, and I love him,” Miss Mignon replied, as if that settled everything. “Happy Bootles!” cried the old soldier. “What a lot of medals you’ve got!” cried Miss Mignon, pressing closer. “I’m afraid, sir, she is troubling you,” Bootles interposed at this point, but secretly delighted with the turn affairs had taken. [Picture: “What a lot of medals you’ve got!”] “No, no; let her see my medals,” replied the general, who was as proud of his medals as Bootles of Miss Mignon. “Are you a ‘sir’ too?” Miss Mignon asked, gazing at the handsome old man with more respect. “What does she mean?” he cried. Bootles laughed. “Well, sir, she hears us speak to the colonel so, that is all.” “Dear me! What a remarkably intelligent and attractive child!” exclaimed the general, quietly. “How old is she?” “About two, sir.” Now it happened that the old general had a craze for absolute accuracy, and he caught Bootles up with pleasant sharpness. “Oh! Does that mean more or less?” “I can’t say, sir. She is about two. I do not know the date of her birth.” “Then she is not yours?”