“I’ll take care of her,” said Mrs. Jim, telegraphing hundred-word messages as she carried William off; while Jim gave Scott his orders for the coming campaign. It was very late—nearly nine o’clock. “Jim, you’re a brute,” said his wife, that night; and the Head of the Famine chuckled. “Not a bit of it, dear. I remember doing the first Jandiala Settlement for the sake of a girl in a crinoline, and she was slender, Lizzie. I’ve never done as good a piece of work since. _He_’ll work like a demon.” “But you might have given him one day.” “And let things come to a head now? No, dear; it’s their happiest time.” “I don’t believe either of the darlings know what’s the matter with them. Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it lovely?” “Getting up at three to learn to milk, bless her heart! Oh, ye Gods, why must we grow old and fat?” “She’s a darling. She has done more work under me—” “Under _you!_ The day after she came she was in charge and you were her subordinate. You’ve stayed there ever since; she manages you almost as well as you manage me.” “She doesn’t, and that’s why I love her. She’s as direct as a man—as her brother.” “Her brother’s weaker than she is. He’s always to me for orders; but he’s honest, and a glutton for work. I confess I’m rather fond of William, and if I had a daughter—” The talk ended. Far away in the Derajat was a child’s grave more than twenty years old, and neither Jim nor his wife spoke of it any more. “All the same, you’re responsible,” Jim added, a moment’s silence. “Bless ’em!” said Mrs. Jim, sleepily. Before the stars paled, Scott, who slept in an empty cart, waked and went about his work in silence; it seemed at that hour unkind to rouse Faiz Ullah and the interpreter. His head being close to the ground, he did not hear William till she stood over him in the dingy old riding-habit, her eyes still heavy with sleep, a cup of tea and a piece of toast in her hands. There was a baby on the ground, squirming on a piece of blanket, and a six-year-old child peered over Scott’s shoulder. “Hai, you little rip,” said Scott, “how the deuce do you expect to get your rations if you aren’t quiet?” A cool white hand steadied the brat, who forthwith choked as the milk gurgled into his mouth. “Mornin’,” said the milker. “You’ve no notion how these little fellows can wriggle.” “Oh, yes, I have.” She whispered, because the world was asleep. “Only I feed them with a spoon or a rag. Yours are fatter than mine. And you’ve been doing this day after day?” The voice was almost lost. “Yes; it was absurd. Now you try,” he said, giving place to the girl. “Look out! A goat’s not a cow.” The goat protested against the amateur, and there was a scuffle, in which Scott snatched up the baby. Then it was all to do over again, and William laughed softly and merrily. She managed, however, to feed two babies, and a third. “Don’t the little beggars take it well?” said Scott. “I trained ’em.”