A nod was all the answer, for Baubie, who was hungry, was busy breaking the piece of loaf.  Wishart with great care divided the pie without spilling much more than half its gravy, and began on his half of it and the biggest onion simultaneously.  Baubie ate up her share of pie, declined cheese, and attacked her onion and a great piece of crust.  The crust was very tough, and after the mutton-pie rather dry and tasteless, and she laid it down presently in her lap, and after a few minutes’ passive silence began:  “That,” nodding at the cheese, or what was left of it rather, “wis all I got—­ae penny.  The leddy took me up till a hoose, an’ anither are that wis there came doon hame and gaed in ben, an’ wis speirin’ for ye, an’ says she’ll gie me till the polis for singin’ an’ askin’ money in t’ streets, an’ wants you to gie me till her to pit in schuil.”

She stopped and fixed her eyes on him, watching the effect of her words.  Wishart laid down his bread and cheese and stared back at her.  It seemed to take some time for his brain to realize all the meaning of her pregnant speech.

“Ay,” he said after a while, and with an effort, “I maun tak’ ye to Glasgae, to yer aunt.  Ye’ll be pit in schuil if yer caught.”

“I’ll no bide,” observed Baubie, finishing off her onion with a grimace.  The raw onion was indeed strong and hot, even for Bauble’s not too epicurean palate, but it had been got for nothing—­a circumstance from which it derived a flavor which many people more dainty than Bauble Wishart find to be extremely appetizing.

“Bide!” echoed her father:  “they’ll mak’ ye bide.  Gin I had only the banjo agen!” sighed the whilom Christy man, getting up and preparing to adjust the boards once more.

The last crumb of the loaf was done, and Bauble, refreshed, got up too.  “Whenll ye be hame?” she questioned abruptly when they had reached the top of the steps.

“Seven.  Gaeway hame wi’ ye, lassie, noo.  Ye didna see her?” he questioned as he walked off.

“Na,” replied Bauble, standing still and looking about her as if to choose which way she should take.

He sighed deeply, and moved off slowly on his way back to his post, with the listless, hopeless air that seems to belong to the members of his calling.

Bauble obeyed her parent’s commands in so far as that she did go home, but as she took Punch and Judy in her course up the Mound, and diverged as far as a football match in the Meadows, it was nearly seven before Kennedy’s Lodgings saw her again.

The following morning, shortly after breakfast, Miss Mackenzie’s butler informed her that there was a child who wanted to speak with her in the hall.  On going down she found Bauble Wishart on the mat.

“Where is your father? and why did he not come with you?” asked Miss Mackenzie, puzzled.

“He thoucht shame to come an’ speak wi’ a fine leddy like you.”  This excuse, plausible enough, was uttered in a low voice and with downcast eyes, but hardly was it pronounced when she burst out rapidly and breathlessly into what was clearly the main object of her visit:  “But please, mem, he says he’ll gie me to you if ye’ll gie him the three shillin’s to tak’ the banjo oot o’ the pawn.”