The curlew’s melancholy note
Across the night.
—G. Essex Evans.
WELL, she’s a queer little atom,” said David Linton, surveying the treasure trove. “Strong and healthy, too, I should say, if one could see anything for stains and dirt. She’s inconceivably dirty. Has she made any remarks on the situation?”
“She seems to approve of you, at any rate, Nor.,” said Jim. “What on earth are you going to do with her?”
“Bath her,” said Norah promptly. “Thank goodness, Mrs. Archdale isn’t going to see her looking like that!”
“I don’t fancy the poor soul would worry over that point of view,” said her father. “But bath her, by all means—you’ll certainly require to do so, as she’ll have to be in your tent all night.”
“A mercy we’ve got the washing-up tin,” remarked Norah, looking with approval at a half kerosene tin which had formed a somewhat disputed part of their pack; “and ammonia—I’d never get her clean without it. Brownie put in a bottle in case of insect stings.”
“You’ll need it all,” Jim said, grimly. “Will she speak, Nor.?”
“She won’t say a word so far,” Norah answered. “I wonder if she has forgotten how? A baby like that would forget nearly everything in a year and a quarter, wouldn’t she?”