“Hush, hush! why this is like a child. I am not going. But, Milly, understand; if I don’t go some day, I shall be wretched. Make up your mind; you are a soldier’s wife.” So I went home with this in my heart. Oh, my poor little economies, my little vulgar cares about the housekeeping! And perhaps he was going away from me to be killed. But hush, hush! I could not be Lady Fanshawe any more, now that there were three of us in the world; and Harry said the truest love would stay at home and pray. CHAPTER VIII. The very next day after that, while I was singing baby to sleep, sitting all alone by the fire, there was a soft knock at the door. I said, “Come in!” thinking it was Mrs. Saltoun, when there suddenly appeared before me a figure as different as possible from the nice little cosy figure of our good old landlady. This was an overgrown girl, fourteen or thereabouts, in the strangest scanty dress. A printed cotton frock, very washed out and dingy, so short as to leave a large piece of legs, clothed in blue-grey stockings, uncomfortably visible; very red arms that somewhat looked as if they were all elbow and fingers; a great checked blue and white pinafore, much washed out like the frock, into the breast of which the hands wore thrust now and then by way of relief to the awkwardness of their owner; hair disposed to be red, and superabundant in quantity, thrust back as far as was practicable under the shade of a queer big bonnet, not only a full-sized woman’s bonnet, but one ten years old, and made in the dimensions common at that distant period. She stood at the door looking at me in a perfect agony of innocent awkwardness, shuffling one foot over the other, twisting her red fingers, holding down her bashful head, but all the time staring with wistful eyes at baby and myself, and so sincere a look of awe and admiration that of course I was touched by it. She did not say a word, but dropped a foolish curtsey, and grew violently red standing at the door. I could not think what such a strange apparition wanted with me. “What do you want, my good girl?” said I at last. “The mistress said I might come,” with another curtsey. Then, after a violent effort, “They said you was wanting a lass.” A lass! Here she was then, the first applicant for the new situation of baby’s personal attendant! Oh dear, what a spectre! I had to pause a little before I could answer her. Really, though I was not much disposed to laughter, the idea was too ludicrous to be treated gravely. “Yes, I want a lass;’ but not one so young as you,” said I. “I want somebody who can take care of my baby. Who sent you to me?” “The mistress said I might come,” answered the apparition; “I can keep wee babies fine.” “You can keep wee babies fine! How old are you?” cried I. “I’m just fourteen since I was born, but some folk count different. I’m awfu’ auld other ways,” said my extraordinary visitor, with a kind of grotesque sigh.