“—­I shall then have finished for the present,” proceeded Mrs. Jellyby with a sweet smile, “though my work is never done.  Where are you, Caddy?”

“‘Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs—­’” said Caddy.

“‘And begs,’” said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, “’to inform him, in reference to his letter of inquiry on the African project—­’ No, Peepy!  Not on my account!”

Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen downstairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting himself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity most—­ the bruises or the dirt.  Mrs. Jellyby merely added, with the serene composure with which she said everything, “Go along, you naughty Peepy!” and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again.

However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I interrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poor Peepy as he was going out and to take him up to nurse.  He looked very much astonished at it and at Ada’s kissing him, but soon fell fast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he was quiet.  I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the letter in detail, though I derived such a general impression from it of the momentous importance of Africa, and the utter insignificance of all other places and things, that I felt quite ashamed to have thought so little about it.

“Six o’clock!” said Mrs. Jellyby.  “And our dinner hour is nominally (for we dine at all hours) five!  Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss Summerson their rooms.  You will like to make some change, perhaps?  You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied.  Oh, that very bad child!  Pray put him down, Miss Summerson!”

I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at all troublesome, and carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed.  Ada and I had two upper rooms with a door of communication between.  They were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was fastened up with a fork.

“You would like some hot water, wouldn’t you?” said Miss Jellyby, looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain.

“If it is not being troublesome,” said we.

“Oh, it’s not the trouble,” returned Miss Jellyby; “the question is, if there is any.”

The evening was so very cold and the rooms had such a marshy smell that I must confess it was a little miserable, and Ada was half crying.  We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking when Miss Jellyby came back to say that she was sorry there was no hot water, but they couldn’t find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order.