“Bless the child!” I cried out, “was there ever such a stupid!” and actually I had to take her down stairs and teach her that a footman was a thing made of brass, with legs that would go inside any fender, and used in the best of families to stand a hot toast before the fire of a winter’s evening--and _that_ I supposed was the reason why they gave the thing such a name. I declare it really wasn’t prudent to trust that Emma to do a thing, and even that little lamb of a Kitty of mine was scarcely safe with a stupid, like her, in the house. For I recollect once, I had been thinking the simpleton had a great deal of spare time on her hands, and might just as well do a little needlework, as sit twiddling her finger and thumb of an evening, so I told her that my little poppet of a Kitty was growing so fast that all her things were getting too short for her, and she really wanted a tuck out in her best frock, and would certainly look all the better for it, so I would thank her to attend to it that night, and let it be done before she went to bed. In the evening, I was in the parlour, boiling down some quince pips to make a nice fixature for my hair, and all the while I could hear that sweet little cherub of mine down stairs crying; so I said to myself what the dickens can that idiot be doing with the child in the kitchen at this time of night, when it ought to have been undressed and in bed a good hour ago? Off I trotted to see what precious bit of stupidity my lady was at now. When I reached the kitchen I thought I should have fainted, for there sat that Emma, with my little angel on her knee, dressed out in its best frock, and with its dear little innocent face daubed all over with treacle, just as if it had been tarred. “What on earth have you been doing with the child, Emma?” I exclaimed. “I thought as you said it was to have a tuck out in its best frock, ma’am,” she replied, “it could have nothing nicer than plenty of bread and treacle.” And then to my horror I learnt from her, that when I told her I fancied the child would look all the better for having a _tuck out_ in its best frock, bless and save us, if the stupid oaf didn’t imagine that I wished it to have a _grand feast_ in its Sunday clothes! “Oh, you stupid, stupid thing!” I said, “and what business have you to go giving the darling all that mess, when the doctor has ordered me to let it have nothing but slops?” “Nothing but slops, mum!” she exclaimed, with her mouth wide open with astonishment. “Yes, you stupid, nothing but slops,” I answered; “don’t you even know what slops are now?” “In course I do, mum,--augh!--oh, la!” she replied; and from the way in which she turned up her nose, and the wry face she made, I could easily see that she fancied that the dear babe was to be fed with the grouts of the tea-cups, or whatever else might be in the slop-basin, when the breakfast things came down.