well cooked, and above all things that the house was quiet. Therefore they stayed on; year after year the same people lived in the parlours, and occupied the genteel drawing-room floor; and hard as her lot was, Mrs Franklin considered herself a lucky woman, and her neighbours often envied her.
The house where the Franklins lived was in one of those remote old-world half-forgotten squares which are to be found at the back of Bloomsbury. In their day these squares had seen fashion and life, but the gay world had long, long ago passed them by and forgotten them, and in consequence, although the houses were large and commodious, the rents were low.
Things had gone fairly well with the Franklins since they took the old house—that is, things had gone fairly well until the arrival of the baby—but, as Mrs Franklin said to her husband, no
baby could come into any house without making a sight of difference. She had only two servants to help her in all her heavy work, and how could either she or they devote much time to nursing and tending a little new-born child?
The baby, however, arrived. It was sent up at once to the nursery which was hastily prepared for it. Flossy, aged six, and Peter, who was between eight and nine, followed it up-stairs, and watched it with profound and breathless interest, while Martha, the most trustworthy of the servants, undressed it, and fed it, and put it to sleep.
‘It’s a perfect duck,’ said Flossy. ‘Look at its wee little face, and isn’t its skin soft! Might we kiss it, Martha? Would it break it, or anything, if we was to kiss it very soft and tender like?’
‘It ain’t a doll, child,’ said Martha. ‘It won’t break with you loving of it.
Kiss it, Flossy—babes is meant for kissing of.’
The children bent down, and printed a tender salute on the wee baby’s face, and that night they scarcely slept themselves for fear of disturbing it.
‘I hope we’ll be allowed to take care of the wee baby,’ whispered Flossy to her brother. ‘I think we could do it werry nice; don’t you, Peter?’