"You don't say so, Jane! What! little Janet a Bloomer! Oh, Jane!" And Mrs. Atwood sank down on the nearest seat. This was worse than the galvanic battery. Her nervous system gave way entirely, and she burst into a flood of tears. "I cannot go in to see her," said Mrs. Atwood. "I don't think I can have her here in my house with my children."
"Oh yes, mother, we must," said Jane; "remember how kind uncle McLeod has always been to us. Don't be so distressed about it. Perhaps we can induce her to change her style of dress."
While Jane was endeavoring to soothe her mother, Janet McLeod had been trying to overcome the shyness of two little children whom she had found in the drawing-room. She was telling them about a pony and a dog she had at home, when the boy raised his head and asked, with the straightforwardness of a child—
"Who are you?"
"I know," said the little girl, shaking her head with a very wise look.
"Do you? Who am I?" asked Janet, amused by her earnest manner.
"I don't like to tell oo; but I'll tell Tarley, if he'll bend down his head."
Charley bent his head, and the child said, in a loud whisper—
"That's the little ooman that went to market to sell her eggs; don't oo see?"
"Are you?" asked Charley.