“Maun? do you mean must? I never do anything I must,” said Miss Cresswell. “There now! make haste; show me where Mrs. Langham is.”
“The drawing-room is the place for leddies that come visiting,” said Lizzie, resolutely. “I’ll no let ye in ony other place.”
“You’ll not let me in!—what do you mean, you impertinent child?” cried Miss Cresswell.
“I’m no a child,” cried Lizzie. “I ken my duty; and if I was to loose my good place what good would that do onybody? If ye please, ye’ll come in here.”
The pause of astonishment that followed was evident by the silence; then a little quick impatient step actually passed into that poor little drawing-room. “You strange little soul! but I’ll tell Mrs. Langham,” cried Miss Cresswell.
“I’m no a soul,” said Lizzie; “I’m just like other folk. I’m Mrs. Langham’s lass; and she kens me different from a stranger. What name will I say, if ye please?”
This question was answered by a burst of laughter from the visitor, which I increased by throwing open the door of my concealment and disclosing myself with baby in my arms. He had on his best frock by accident, which explains my rashness.
“How have you managed it?” cried Miss Cresswell; “why, here is a romance-servant. Dear Mrs. Langham, tell me what you have done to make her so original—and let me have baby. I have not come to make a call, as that creature supposed. I have come as a friend—you said I might. Why must I be brought into this room?”
“It is the most cheerful room,” said I, evading the question: “however, Lizzie did not mean to be saucy—she knew no better—but she is the most famous help in the world, though she is little more than a child.”
“But then I suppose you must do a great many things yourself?” said my visitor, looking me very close in the face.