“I wonder how she come here, at any rate,” persisted the housemaid, saucily. “Gracious goodness! but the thing does seem to take to you, Mr. Turner, so natural. Isn’t it a sight to behold?”
“Peace, woman!” cried the old man, stamping his foot till it rang on the tessellated floor. “Have you no decency?”
“Decency, indeed!”
As the housemaid tossed her head, with this pert rejoinder, a tall, haughty woman came through a side door and moved toward us. Her morning dress swept the marble as she walked, and long silken tassels swayed the cord slowly to and fro, which bound the sumptuous garment to her waist. She held a tiny dog in her arms, which began to bark furiously as he saw me.
“What is all this?” she said, addressing Turner. “Something found on the door-step?—where is it? what is it like?”
“Very like a hungry, sick, dying little girl,” replied Turner, pressing me closer to him, “nothing more!”
“Who can it be? have you the least idea, Turner?” cried the lady.
“I, madam—I, how can that be?”
“Don’t hide its face, Turner. Is it pretty? Hush, Tip. Jealous already—there, there!”
While the lady was soothing her dog, Turner, with much reluctance and many distortions, turned my head upon his bosom, and the lady saw my face. She started.