“What a queer little, dear little thing, Henry! I never saw such a child. Where can she have dropped from? Did you see any carriage come after us? It is useless to tell me that she can belong to any of the people about here. Look at her forehead, and look at her manners, and how she touches everything! Now did you see that? What a wonderful child! Every movement is grace and delicacy. Oh, you pretty darling!”
Her ladyship could wait no longer for the Colonel’s opinion (which he was inclined to think of ere he should come out with it), and she ran down the sandhill almost faster than became her dignity. But if she had been surprised before, how was she astonished now at Bardie’s reception of her?
“Don ’e tush. Knee tushy paw, see voo pay. All ’e dollies is yae good; just going to dinny, and ’e mustn’t ’poil their appeties.”
And the little atom arose and moved Lady Bluett’s skirt out of her magic circle. And then, having saved her children, she stood scarcely up to the lady’s knee, and looked at her as much as to ask, “Are you of the quality?” And being well satisfied on that point, she made what the lady declared to be the most elegant curtsy she ever had seen.
Meanwhile the Colonel was coming up, in a dignified manner, and leisurely, perceiving no cause to rush through rushes, and knowing that his sister was often too quick. This had happened several times in the matter of beggars and people on crutches, and skin-collectors, and suchlike, who cannot always be kept out of the way of ladies; and his worship the Colonel had been compelled to endeavour to put a stop to it. Therefore (as the best man in the world cannot in reason be expected to be in a moment abreast with the sallies of even the best womankind, but likes to see to the bottom of it) the Colonel came up crustily.
“Eleanor, can you not see that the child does not wish for your interference? Her brothers and sisters are sure to be here from Kenfig most likely, or at any rate some of her relations, and busy perhaps with our basket.”
“No,” said the child, looking up at him, “I’se got no ’lations now; all gone ayae; but all come back demorrow-day.”
“Why, Henry, what are we thinking of? This must be the poor little girl that was wrecked. And I wanted you so to come down and see her; but you refused on account of her being under the care of Farmer Thomas.”
“No, my dear, not exactly that, but on account of the trouble in the house I did not like to appear to meddle.”
“Whatever your reason was,” answered the lady, “no doubt you were quite right; but now I must know more of this poor little thing. Come and have some dinner with us, my darling; I am sure you must be hungry. Don’t be afraid of the Colonel. He loves little children when they are good.”
But poor Bardie hung down her head and was shy, which never happened to her with me or any of the common people; she seemed to know, as if by instinct, that she was now in the company of her equals. Lady Bluett, however, was used to children, and very soon set her quite at ease by inviting her dolls, and coaxing them and listening to their histories, and all the other little turns that unlock the hearts of innocence. So it came to pass that the castaway dined in good society for the first time since her great misfortune. Here she behaved so prettily, and I might say elegantly, that Colonel Lougher (who was of all men the most thoroughly just and upright) felt himself bound to confess his error in taking her for a Kenfig nobody. Now, as it happened to be his birthday, the lady had ordered Mr. Crumpy, the butler, to get a bottle of the choicest wine, and put it into the hamper without saying anything to the Colonel, so that she might drink his health, and persuade him to do himself the like good turn. Having done this, she gave the child a drop in the bottom of her own wineglass, which the little one tossed off most fluently, and with a sigh of contentment said—
“I’se not had a dop of that yiney-piney ever since—sompfin.”
“Why, what wine do you call it, my little dear?” the Colonel asked, being much amused with her air of understanding it.
“Doesn’t ’a know?” she replied, with some pity; “nat’s hot I calls a dop of good Sam Paine.”
“Give her some more,” said the Colonel; “upon my word she deserves it. Eleanor, you were right about her; she is a wonderful little thing.”
All the afternoon they kept her with them, being more and more delighted with her as she began to explain her opinions; and Watty, who came to look after her, was sent home with a shilling in his pocket. And some of the above I learned from him, and some from Mr. Crumpy (who
