“Hurry off, Mr. William; I will take care of the little girl,” said Annie.
“Yes,” said Harcourt to himself, as he left the house, “if I should be an hour late I should be ‘docked’ half a day. But that dear, good woman, she will lose her whole day’s work, I fear. But, after all, she will like it,” he added.
But Annie did not lose her whole day’s work.
She led the child into her own room, prepared a warm bath in a large washtub, put her into it, gave her a sponge and a bit of soap, and said:
“Now, play about in that, like a little duck in a pond, to your heart’s content, while I go and throw this tangle of fever away,” she said, as she left the child splashing in the water, took the tongs and picked up the shawl with them, carried it into Harcourt’s room, and threw it out of the back window.
“I had no means of burning such a thing in my small stove. But I am afraid it will become the treasure-trove of some other ragpicker, and so fulfill its destiny of a pestilence breeder,” she said, with a sigh, as she closed the window.
When she returned she found the child still luxuriating in the warm bath.
She rolled up her sleeves and knelt down by her side, rubbed the little creature down, admiring a form as beautiful as one of Raphael’s cherubs, took her out of the tub, wiped her dry, and laid her between the fresh sheets of her—Annie’s—white bed.
“Now that you are so sweet, and clean, and comfortable, I hope you will not mind staying here by yourself while I go out to buy some clothes to put on you. It is only a little way I shall have to go, and I will not be gone long,” said Annie, as she smoothed the counterpane over the bed.
“Oh, no, thank you, ma’am, I shall not mind staying alone, for, you must know, I really am possessed of common sense,” said the elf, with impressive gravity.