"Nicely, mamma;" and then, in a lower but still audible tone, "she is a tidy lassie, and pretty too—just the thing to tend the door."
"She looks pale, I hope she is not sickly? I can't undertake a sickly child," said Mrs. Oatley, inquiringly.
"She is not in the least sickly, ma'am—she is paler than is natural to her just now."
"How does that happen?" It would have been a long and sad story to explain how that happened, and a hard one for Mrs. Lee to tell; she therefore evaded the question, "You will find her strong enough, ma'am, to perform any service you will require." Then followed the customary questions, to which Mrs. Lee replied, as she had predetermined, simply that she was a stranger in the city, and that she was compelled, by the wants consequent on her husband's protracted illness, to seek a place for her child.
"It's much the best thing for your child, good woman."
"That depends!" thought poor Mrs. Lee. She ventured to ask what service would be required of Lucy.
"Oh, the work I want her for is just nothing at all—merely to tend the door, bring up messages, and occasionally to run of errands—you could not find a better place for her—I'll give her four dollars a month."
"And if she is civil, &c., &c., &c.," said Miss Oatley, "she'll get plenty of presents."
"The wages are very liberal, ma'am," said Mrs. Lee, after a little hesitation, "but—"
