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Updated: June 15, 2025
The days grew longer and longer, and of a mild evening the thrush's note was to be heard above the brawling of the stream from the thickets of Dean Terrace Gardens. Baubie Wishart waited passively. Every day saw her more docile and demure, and every day saw a new scratch added to her tally on the window-shutter behind her bed.
It was no wonder that under the influence of these cherished recollections "white seam" did not progress and the knitting never attained to the finished evenness of the lassie Grant's performance. None the less, although she made no honest effort to equal this model proposed for her example, did Baubie feel jealous and aggrieved.
"How do you do? and where did you pick up this creature?" she asked, looking curiously at the importation. "Near George IV. Bridge, on this side of it, and I just took hold of her and brought her off to you at once. I don't believe" this was said sotto voce "that she has a particle of clothing on her but that frock." "Very likely. What is your name, my child?" "Baubie Wishart, mem."
Baubie Wishart listened with outward calmness and seeming acquiescence to the comparison instituted between herself and her neighbor. Inwardly, however, she raged. What about knitting? Anybody could knit. She would like to see the lassie Grant earn two shillings of a Saturday night singing in the High street or the Lawnmarket.
Baubie saw her familiar garb again with joy, and put it on with keen satisfaction.
Precipitating herself at one of these doors, Baubie Wishart, who could barely reach the latch, pushed it open, giving egress to a confusion of noises, which seemed to float above a smell of cooking, in which smell herrings and onions contended for the mastery. It was a very large room, low-ceilinged, but well enough lighted by a couple of windows, which looked into a close behind.
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.
The days wore into weeks, and the weeks had soon made a month, and time, as it went, left Baubie more demure, quieter and more diligent diligent apparently at least, for the knitting, though it advanced, showed no sign of corresponding improvement, and the rest of her work was simply scamped. March had given way to April, and the late Edinburgh spring at last began to give signs of its approach.
Baubie looked at them curiously, and wondered to herself how much they would all pawn for considerably more than three shillings no doubt. She established that fact to her own satisfaction ere long, although she was no great arithmetician, and she sighed as she built and demolished an air-castle in her own mind.
Miss Mackenzie gave the driver his order and got in, facing the red tartan bundle. "Were you ever in a cab before?" asked Miss Mackenzie. "Na, niver," replied Baubie in a rapt tone and without looking at her questioner, so intent was she on staring out of the windows, between both of which she divided her attention impartially.
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