"Yes, mem," answered Bauble reverently, almost solemnly.
There seemed to be no necessity for further exhortation. Baubie's demeanor promised everything that was hoped for or wanted, and, perfectly contented, Miss Mackenzie turned her attention to the minor details of wardrobe, etc.: "That frock is good enough if it were washed. She must get shoes and stockings; and then underwear, too, of some sort will be wanted."
"That will it," responded the matron; "but I had better send her at once to get a bath."
A big girl was summoned from a back room and desired to get ready a tub. It was the ceremony customary at the reception of a neophyte—customary, and in general very necessary too.
Baubie's countenance fell lower still on hearing this, and she blinked both eyes deprecatingly. Nevertheless, when the big girl—whom they called Kate—returned, bringing with her a warm whiff of steam and soap, she trotted after her obediently and silently.
After a while the door opened, and Kate's yellow head appeared. "Speak with ye, mem?" she said. "I hae her washen noo, but what for claes?"
"Eh yes.—Miss Mackenzie, we can't put her back into those dirty clothes."
"Oh no.—I'll come and look at her clothes, Kate." As she spoke Miss Mackenzie rose and followed the matron and Kate into a sort of kitchen or laundry.
In the middle of the floor was a tub containing Miss Wishart mid-deep in soapsuds. Her thick hair was all soaking, and clung fast to her head: dripping locks hung clown over her eyes, which looked out through the tangle patient and suffering. She glanced up quickly as Miss Mackenzie came in, and then resigned herself passively into Kate's hands, who with a piece of flannel had resumed the scrubbing process.
Miss Mackenzie was thinking to herself that it was possibly Baubie Wishart's first experience of the kind, when she observed the child wince as if she were hurt.