“Anything with plenty of pockets in it,” said Mr. Dyce. “At the age of ten a boy would prefer his clothes to be all pockets. By George! an entire suit of pockets, with a new penny in every pocket for luck, would be a great treat,” and he chuckled at the idea, making a mental note of it for a future occasion.
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Bell, emphatically, for here she was in her own department. “The boy is going to be a Scotch boy. I'll have the kilt on him, or nothing.”
“The kilt!” said Mr. Dyce.
“The kilt!” cried Ailie.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
It was a loud knocking at the front door. They stopped the talk to listen, and they heard the maid go along the lobby from the kitchen. When she opened the door, there came in the cheerful discord of the street, the sound of a pounding drum, the fifes still busy, the orange-hawker's cry, but over all they heard her put her usual interrogation to visitors, no matter what their state or elegance.
“Well, what is't?” she asked, and though they could not see her, they knew she would have the door just a trifle open, with her shoulder against it, as if she was there to repel some chieftain of a wild invading clan. Then they heard her cry, “Mercy on me!” and her footsteps hurrying to the parlor door. She threw it open, and stood with some one behind her.
“What do you think? Here's brother William's wean!” she exclaimed, in a gasp.
“My God! Where is he?” cried Bell, the first to find her tongue. “He's no hurt, is he?”
“It's no' a him at all—it's a her!” shrieked Kate, throwing up her arms in consternation, and stepping aside she gave admission to a little girl.