The two
ladies laughed, and Carey said, with a species of proud apology—-
"Poor children, you see they have been used to be noticed by clever
men."
"Mr. Ogilvie is come to see our museum," cried Babie, in her
patronising tone, jumping and dancing round during his greetings and
remarks that he hoped he might take advantage of her invitation; he
had been thinking whether to begin a school museum would not be a
very good thing for the boys, and serve to open their minds to common
things. On which, before any one else could answer, the parrot, in a
low and sententious tone, observed, "Excellent."
"There, you have the consent of your first acquaintance," said Carey,
while the bird, excited by one of those mysterious likings that her
kind are apt to take, held her grey head to Mr. Ogilvie to be
scratched, chuckling out, "All Mother Carey's chickens," and Janet
exclaimed—-
"That's an adoption."
The troop were climbing the stairs to the third story, where Armine
and Bobus were already within an octagon room, corresponding to the
little hall below, and fitted with presses and shelves, belonging to
the store-room of the former thrifty inhabitant; but now divided
between the six children, Mother Carey, as Babie explained, being
"Mine own, and helping me more specially.
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