To the nursery they went and there, in her bassinette lay the baby, asleep.  She looked like a lovely little flower, indeed, and Patty gazed with adoring eyes at the flushed little face.

“Oh!” cried Azalea, aloud, “what an angel baby!”

“Hush!” whispered Patty, “don’t wake her!” and Nurse Winnie stood around in a state of nervous apprehension.

“No, I won’t,” Azalea said, in such a loud whisper, that it was scarce a whisper at all,—­rather a muffled shout.

And then she poked her forefinger into the baby’s roseleaf cheek.

“Pretty!” she said, beaming at the child.

“Oh, don’t touch her!” Patty cried out.  “Come away, Azalea!” for she really didn’t know what the strange girl would do next.

“Pshaw!  I didn’t hurt her.  If she’s such a touch-me-not, she’s no fun at all!  But every-body’s like that with their first baby!  Silly!  Fussy!  Just ridiculous!”

“I daresay,” laughed Patty, determined not to show her annoyance.  “But it’s time to dress for dinner,—­or nearly.  Come back to your room,—­and—­wouldn’t you like to take a fifteen minute nap?  It might refresh you.”

“It would not!  Take a nap in broad daylight!  I never heard of such a thing!  Oh, well, if I can’t speak to that kid let’s go back to my room.  I’ll skittle into my frock and go down to that flowery, bowery piazza again.  I like that.”

“What shall you put on?” asked Patty, interestedly, as Azalea made a mad dive into her trunk.

“Dunno.  What say?  This?” She held up a mussy looking white muslin, trimmed with coarse embroidery and some imitation lace.

“That will do nicely,” Patty said, relieved that it was at least white, and not some of the flamboyant effects she saw still in the trunk.  “Janet will press it off for you,—­it’s rumpled from packing.  And then you needn’t unpack, dear, Janet will do that for you.”

“Oh, I thought you told me not to call on the servant for anything!”

“No,” Patty said, discouraged, “I didn’t quite say that,—­here’s Janet now.  Let her do your hair for you!”

“Do my hair!  Mercy gracious!  I should say not!  I’ve never had that done for me.”

“But I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the way she’d do it.  Janet is an artist at hair-dressing.”

“Nopy! nix on the barber act for little Zaly!  I’ll comb my own wig, thank you!”

With a comb, she stood before the cheval glass, and twisted up the dark mop into a tidy but most unbecoming coil.

“Don’t you care how it looks?” cried Patty, in dismay.  “Really, don’t you?  And you’ve such pretty hair!”

“Then if it’s pretty hair, it doesn’t need any fancy doing,” and Azalea gave a whimsical smile.  “There, that’s done.  Now for my frock.”

Janet had whisked the white muslin away, and already had it back, pressed and freshened.

“Lovely!” Azalea exclaimed; “how ever did you do it so quick?  Happen to have an iron on the stove?”