“MEM, he’s been at the market,” said Lizzie, next morning, “and bought a hen; and he smiles and laughs to himself like to bring down the house.”

This was the first bulletin of the important day on which the Italian gentleman was expected home.

The next report was more painful to Lizzie’s feelings. “He’s been at the chapel,” said Lizzie, in a horrified whisper, “and brought hame water to put in the wee bowlie at the maister’s bedhead. Oh, did you see it? it has a cross, and—and—a figure on’t,” said Lizzie, with a deep awe, “and a wee round bowlie for the water. What’ll yon be for? I’m no sure it’s safe to be in the same house.”

Lizzie’s horror, however, did not diminish her curiosity. After a little interval another scrap of information reached my attentive ear. “He has some veal on the kitchen-table,” said Lizzie, “and if he’s no’ working at it himsel’! A man! cutting away and paring away, and putting the pan a’ ready like a woman—and, eh, mem, the wastry’s dreadful. He’s making holes in’t and stuffin’ them fu’ o’ something. Noo he’s puttin’t on the fire.”

That day baby was neglected for the first time. Lizzie was too much excited and interested—not to say that she had an observant eye and believed it quite possible that she might receive a hint from this man of all work—to repress her natural curiosity. The next thing she reported was a half-alarmed statement that “he was away out again and left it at the fire; and what if it was sitting to[A] before he came hame?” Lizzie’s dread of this accident carried her off downstairs to watch Domenico’s stew with friendly anxiety. In about an hour she re-appeared again.

[A] A Scotch expression which signifies burned in the pan.

“He’s come back; and, eh! o’ a’ the things in the world to think upon, it’s a box of thae nasty things he smokes!” cried Lizzie. “If the gentlemen smokes tae, we’ll a’ be driven out of the house.”{186}

Just then, however, another incident occurred which interrupted Lizzie’s observations. As she went out of the room, in silent despair, after her last alarming presentiment, somebody evidently encountered her coming up. “I want Mrs. Langham, please,” cried Miss Cresswell’s voice. “Are you her maid? Oh, I’m not to be shown into the drawing-room. I am to go to her. Where is she?—in the nursery? Show me where to go, please.”

“But you maun go to the drawing-room,” said Lizzie, making, as I felt sure from the little quiver in her voice, her bob to the young lady, and audibly opening the sacred door of our state apartment.

“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.”{187}

“But then I suppose you must do a great many things yourself?” said my visitor, looking me very close in the face.

I felt my cheeks grow hot in spite of myself—if Harry had heard her he would have been furious; and I daresay many people would have set this down at once as the impertinence of the rich to the poor. I felt it was no such thing; but still it embarrassed me a little, against my will.

“Do you know some people would be affronted to be asked as much?” said I.

“I know,” cried Miss Cresswell, with a little toss of her head,—“people who can’t understand how miserable it is not to have to do anything. Do you believe in voluntary work? I don’t. I can’t see it’s any good. I can’t see the use of it. I should like to cook the dinner and keep the things tidy. I should like to see everything stand gaping and calling for me till I set it to rights. That’s the pleasure; but as for saving somebody else trouble, why should I do it? I can’t see any advantage whatever in that.”

“Then you would not have me save Lizzie or the landlady some trouble when I can?” said I.

“That is totally a different thing,” said the impetuous little girl; then she started, in a manner to me inexplicable, and gazed out of the window near which she was sitting. “Mr. Luigi!” she exclaimed to herself; “now I should so like to know what he wants here.”

Just then there was the noise of an arrival at the door; of course it must be the Italian gentleman. “Who is he?” said I. “If it is the Italian, he lives here.”

Without making any imm............