“Maun? do you mean must? I never do anything I must,” said Miss Cresswell. “There now! make haste; show me where Mrs. Langham is.” “The drawing-room is the place for leddies that come visiting,” said Lizzie, resolutely. “I’ll no let ye in ony other place.” “You’ll not let me in!--what do you mean, you impertinent child?” cried Miss Cresswell. “I’m no a child,” cried Lizzie. “I ken my duty; and if I was to loose my good place what good would that do onybody? If ye please, ye’ll come in here.” The pause of astonishment that followed was evident by the silence; then a little quick impatient step actually passed into that poor little drawing-room. “You strange little soul! but I’ll tell Mrs. Langham,” cried Miss Cresswell. “I’m no a soul,” said Lizzie; “I’m just like other folk. I’m Mrs. Langham’s lass; and she kens me different from a stranger. What name will I say, if ye please?” This question was answered by a burst of laughter from the visitor, which I increased by throwing open the door of my concealment and disclosing myself with baby in my arms. _He had on his best frock by accident_, which explains my rashness. “How have you managed it?” cried Miss Cresswell; “why, here is a romance-servant. Dear Mrs. Langham, tell me what you have done to make her so original--and let me have baby. I have not come to make a call, as that creature supposed. I have come as a friend--you said I might. Why must I be brought into this room?” “It is the most cheerful room,” said I, evading the question: “however, Lizzie did not mean to be saucy--she knew no better--but she is the most famous help in the world, though she is little more than a child.” “But then I suppose you must do a great many things yourself?” said my visitor, looking me very close in the face. I felt my cheeks grow hot in spite of myself--if Harry had heard her he would have been furious; and I daresay many people would have set this down at once as the impertinence of the rich to the poor. I felt it was no such thing; but still it embarrassed me a little, against my will. “Do you know some people would be affronted to be asked as much?” said I. “I know,” cried Miss Cresswell, with a little toss of her head,--“people who can’t understand how miserable it is not to _have_ to do anything. Do you believe in voluntary work? I don’t. I can’t see it’s any good. I can’t see the use of it. I should like to cook the dinner and keep the things tidy. I should like to see everything stand gaping and calling for me till I set it to rights. That’s the pleasure; but as for saving somebody else trouble, why should I do it? I can’t see any advantage whatever in that.” “Then you would not have me save Lizzie or the landlady some trouble when I can?” said I.