Surprised, Sir Dugald followed the direction of his eyes, to see in a corner, almost hidden by a huge despatch-box, a small girl with a curious pink-and-white frock and a shock of dark hair. “She would play there quietly all day, never coming out unless I call her,” said General Keeling. “If she isn’t with me, she’s with Tarleton, watching him at his work. He gives her an old medicine-bottle or two, and some sand and water, and she’s as happy as possible, pretending to make up pills and mixtures. Or she begs a bit of paper from me, and writes for ever so long, and brings it to me to be sealed up in an official envelope--making up returns, you see. Missy,” raising his voice, “come here and speak to Captain Haigh. He held you in his arms when you were only two or three days old, and you have often heard about him in your Godmamma’s letters.” The child obeyed at once, disclosing the fact that her embroidered muslin frock (which Sir Dugald had a vague recollection had been sent her by his wife) had been lengthened and adorned by the tailor at his own discretion by the addition of three flounces of common pink English print. She held out a little brown hand to the stranger in silence. “Does us credit, doesn’t she?” asked her father, smoothing back the elf-locks from her forehead. Sir Dugald’s domestic instincts were in revolt at the idea of the child’s being brought up by two men, without a woman at hand even to give advice; but there was such anxiety in General Keeling’s voice that he crushed down his feelings and ventured on the remark that Missy was a very fine girl for her age. “We are not very successful with her hair,” the father went on. “The ayah tries to curl it, but either Missy is too restless, or Dulya doesn’t know quite the right way to set about it. It never looks smooth and shiny like children’s hair in pictures.” Sir Dugald wisely waived the question, feeling that he was not an authority on the subject. “Can she--isn’t she--er--old enough to talk?” he asked, with becoming diffidence. “Talk! you should hear her chattering to Tarleton and me, or to her favourites in the regiment. But she doesn’t wear her heart upon her sleeve with strangers. If she takes a liking to you, it’ll be different presently.” “Do you let her run about among the men?” “She runs nowhere out of my sight or Tarleton’s or Dulya’s. But the whole regiment are her humble slaves, and the man she deigns to favour is set up for life, in his own opinion. What would happen if she took a dislike to a man I don’t know, but I hardly think his skin would be safe. Commendation from me is nothing compared with the honour conferred by the Missy Baba when she allows a stiff-necked old Ressaldar to take her up in his arms, and is good enough to pull his beard.”