“That will it,” responded the matron; “but I had better send her at once to get a bath.”

A big girl was summoned from a back room and desired to get ready a tub.  It was the ceremony customary at the reception of a neophyte—­customary, and in general very necessary too.

Baubie’s countenance fell lower still on hearing this, and she blinked both eyes deprecatingly.  Nevertheless, when the big girl—­whom they called Kate—­returned, bringing with her a warm whiff of steam and soap, she trotted after her obediently and silently.

After a while the door opened, and Kate’s yellow head appeared.  “Speak with ye, mem?” she said.  “I hae her washen noo, but what for claes?”

“Eh yes.—­Miss Mackenzie, we can’t put her back into those dirty clothes.”

“Oh no.—­I’ll come and look at her clothes, Kate.”  As she spoke Miss Mackenzie rose and followed the matron and Kate into a sort of kitchen or laundry.

In the middle of the floor was a tub containing Miss Wishart mid-deep in soapsuds.  Her thick hair was all soaking, and clung fast to her head:  dripping locks hung clown over her eyes, which looked out through the tangle patient and suffering.  She glanced up quickly as Miss Mackenzie came in, and then resigned herself passively into Kate’s hands, who with a piece of flannel had resumed the scrubbing process.

Miss Mackenzie was thinking to herself that it was possibly Baubie Wishart’s first experience of the kind, when she observed the child wince as if she were hurt.

“It’s yon’ as hurts her,” said Kate, calling the matron’s attention to something on the child’s shoulders.  They both stooped and saw a long blue-and-red mark—­a bruise all across her back.  Nor was this the only evidence of ill-treatment:  other bruises, and even scars, were to be seen on the lean little body.

“Puir thing!” said the matron in a low tone, sympathizingly.

“Baubie, who gave you that bruise?” asked Miss Mackenzie.

No answer from Baubie, who seemed to be absorbed in watching the drops running off the end of her little red nose, which played the part of a gargoyle to the rest of her face.

Miss Mackenzie repeated the question, sternly almost:  “Bauble Wishart, I insist upon knowing who gave you that bruise.”

“A didna gie’t to mysel’, mem.” was the answer from the figure in the soapsuds.  There was a half sob in the voice as of terror, and her manner had all the appearance of ingenuousness.

The matron and Miss Mackenzie looked at each other significantly, and agreed tacitly that there was no use in pushing the question.

“Od!” said Kate, who had paused in the act of taking a warm towel from the fireplace to listen, “a’body kens ye didna gie it till yoursel’, lassie.”

“Where are her clothes?” said the matron.  “Oh, here.  Yon frock’s good enough if it was washed; but, losh me! just look at these for clothes!” She was exhibiting some indescribable rags as she spoke.