"It's yon' as hurts her," said Kate, calling the matron's attention to something on the child's shoulders. They both stooped and saw a long blue-and-red mark—a bruise all across her back. Nor was this the only evidence of ill-treatment: other bruises, and even scars, were to be seen on the lean little body.
"Puir thing!" said the matron in a low tone, sympathizingly.
"Baubie, who gave you that bruise?" asked Miss Mackenzie.
No answer from Baubie, who seemed to be absorbed in watching the drops running off the end of her little red nose, which played the part of a gargoyle to the rest of her face.
Miss Mackenzie repeated the question, sternly almost: "Bauble Wishart, I insist upon knowing who gave you that bruise."
"A didna gie't to mysel', mem." was the answer from the figure in the soapsuds. There was a half sob in the voice as of terror, and her manner had all the appearance of ingenuousness.
The matron and Miss Mackenzie looked at each other significantly, and agreed tacitly that there was no use in pushing the question.
"Od!" said Kate, who had paused in the act of taking a warm towel from the fireplace to listen, "a'body kens ye didna gie it till yoursel', lassie."
"Where are her clothes?" said the matron. "Oh, here. Yon frock's good enough if it was washed; but, losh me! just look at these for clothes!" She was exhibiting some indescribable rags as she spoke.
"Kate," said Miss Mackenzie, "dress her in the lassie Grant's clothes: they are the most likely to fit her. Don't lose time: I want to see her again before I go."