Oh, she was only twenty---just a lovely, laughing-faced girl, whom
they all adored, and who was very little steadier and very
little more of a housekeeper than Meg. Only the youngest of the
brood was hers, but she seemed just as fond of the other six as
of it, and treated it more as if it were a very entertaining
kitten than a real live baby, and her very own.

Indeed at Misrule--that is the name their house always went by,
though I believe there was a different one painted above the
balcony--that baby seemed a gigantic joke to everyone. The
Captain generally laughed when he saw it, tossed it in the air,
and then asked someone to take it quickly.

The children dragged it all: over the country with them, dropped
it countless times, forgot its pelisse on wet days, muffled it up
when it was hot, gave it the most astounding things to eat, and yet
it was the if healthiest; prettiest, and most sunshiny baby that
ever sucked a wee fat thumb.

It was never called "Baby," either; that was the special name of
the next youngest. Captain Woolcot had said, "Hello, is this the
General?" when the little, red, staring-eyed morsel had been put
into his arms, and the name had come into daily use, though I
believe at the christening service the curate did say something
about Francis Rupert Burnand Woolcot.

Baby was four, and was a little soft fat thing with pretty
cuddlesome ways, great smiling eyes, and lips very kissable when
they were free from jam.