Under other circumstances the tender-hearted Prudence would have remonstrated with the woman on her cruelty to a helpless infant. As it was, she did not dare risk a scene, so took an opportunity to whisper sympathy to Augusta, and implore her to be patient.
After many anxious glances at the clock, the hands marked the hour named by Mrs. Brown, and, at the moment, a bustling, fresh-complexioned woman of about five-and-fifty, stout and respectably dressed, hurried into the room, and, first casting a comprehensive glance around, walked over to Prudence, and said,
“Excuse me, ma’am, but are you here with reference to a child?”
“Are you Mrs. Brown?” asked Prudence, favourably impressed by her appearance of cleanliness and her businesslike manner.
“Yes, ma’am, I ham Mrs. Brown, otherwise X. Y. Z.—‘good Mrs. Brown,’ they calls me down our wy; and you, ma’am, I suppose are P. S.?”
“Yes,” said Prudence faintly.
“And this is the dear baby? Pitty ickle sing!” said Mrs. Brown, making a dab with a motherly forefinger at Augusta’s cheek. Augusta looked at her very hard, and Prudence could not help hoping that she was as favourably impressed as herself.
“Yes,” she said, “this is the baby I wish you to take charge of, and on whom I hope you will bestow motherly care.”
“That, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Brown, “you may rest assured on. How old is the little dear?”
Prudence was all confusion.