“Guilty or not guilty?” asked the sheriff-clerk.

“There’s a kin’ lady in coort,” stammered Wishart, “an’ she kens a’ aboot it.”

“Guilty or not guilty?” reiterated the clerk:  “this is not the time to speak.”  “She kens it a’, an’ she wis to tak’ the lassie.”

“Guilty or not guilty?  You must plead, and you can say what you like afterward.”  Wishart stopped, not without an appealing look at the kind lady, and pleaded guilty meekly.  A policeman with a scratched face and one hand plastered up testified to the extravagances Mrs. Wishart had committed on the strength of her conversion to teetotal principles.

Baubic heard it all impassively, her face only betraying anything like keen interest while the police-officer was detailing his injuries.  Three months’ imprisonment was the sentence on Margaret Mactear or Wishart.  Then Wishart’s sentence was pronounced—­sixty days.

He and Baubie drew nearer to each other, Wishart with a despairing, helpless look.  Baubie’s eyes looked like those of a hare taken in a gin.  Not one word had been said about her.  She was not to go with her father.  What was to become of her?  She was not long left in doubt as to her fate.

“I will take the child, sheriff,” said Miss Mackenzie eagerly and anxiously.  “I came here purposely to offer her a home in the refuge.”

“Policeman, hand over the child to this lady at once,” said the sheriff.—­

“Nothing could be better, Miss Mackenzie.  It is very good of you to volunteer to take charge of her.”

Mrs. Wishart disappeared with a parting volley of blasphemy; her husband, casting, as he went, a wistful look at Miss Mackenzie, shambled fecklessly after the partner of his joys and sorrows; and the child remained alone behind.  The policeman took her by an arm and drew her forward to make room for a fresh consignment of wickedness from the cells at the side.  Baubie breathed a short sigh as the door closed upon her parents, shook back her hair, and looked up at Miss Mackenzie, as if to announce her readiness and good will.  Not one vestige of her internal mental attitude could be gathered from her sun-and wind-beaten little countenance.  There was no rebelliousness, neither was there guilt.  One would almost have thought she had been told beforehand what was to happen, so cool and collected was she.

“Now, Baubie, I am going to take you home.  Come, child.”

Pleased with her success, Miss Mackenzie, so speaking, took the little waif’s hand and led her out of the police-court into the High street.  She hardly dared to conjecture that it was Baubie Wishart’s first visit to that place, but as she stood on the entrance-steps and shook out her skirts with a sense of relief, she breathed a sincere hope that it might be the child’s last.

A cab was waiting.  Baubie, to her intense delight and no less astonishment, was requested to occupy the front seat.  Miss Mackenzie gave the driver his order and got in, facing the red tartan bundle.