Augusta had been looking at her fixedly until she attracted her attention, and when the eyes of the nurse and her assistant were fixed on the elderly infant, they saw she was making violent efforts to get up.
"What is it, pet? What is it now?" said the assistant soothingly. "What does my precious want?"
"I vow and declare," said the matron, "that child is making signs as if she was writing. Look at her finger, do. She makes me nervous, she does. 'Tis no way for a baby like that to go on."
"How old would you say she was, nurse?"
"Oh, 'bout a year I'd say, or fourteen months."
"Would you now? Well, p'raps she is; but d'you know when first I saw her she didn't seem to look a month old. Queer, wasn't it? p'raps 'twas the light, but she do seem a deal older now."
"Wat an interest you take in her," said the matron. "Wy 'er more 'an the others? Nasty little varmint she is I thinks myself. She might be an 'undred by the looks of 'er."
"Wot ken you expect from a pore little neglected come-by-chance? She's 'ad a bad time, she 'as. I wish I 'ad 'er mother 'ere, an' I'd give 'er wot for, so I would."
