“You must introduce us to your husband, Polly.”
“Yes, Miss, I’ll call him in. Or no, Miss, not this morning,” said the young wife, rather hurriedly; “he is very busy.”
“Some other time then,” said Julia. “I suppose you are very fond of it, Polly?”
“Fond of it, Miss Julia? Oh, you can’t think how I love it.”
“No,” said Julia, softly, and looking curiously at the young mother, “I suppose not.”
“Oh, here is Budge,” said little Mrs Morrison, as a heavy, stolid-looking girl entered the room. “She will take baby now, Miss. There, Budge, take her in the kitchen, and don’t go too near the fire.”
“No, missus,” said the girl, taking the well-wrapped-up baby in her red arms, staring heavily the while at the visitors, and consequently nearly bringing her charge to grief by stumbling over a stool.
“Oh, Budge!” cried little Mrs Morrison.
“I ain’t hurt, missus,” said the girl coolly, and she allowed herself to be piloted out of the room by her mistress, when a chair was heard to scroop.
“Oh, how funny it does seem!” cried Cynthia.