“Yes—she’s—she’s all right. But we ’ave to mind ’er,” replied the boy in great confusion.
“Surely,” said Meg, “Surely you don’t begrudge that. Poor little thing—so little, she is—surely you don’t grumble at minding her a bit——?”
The boys would not answer.
“Oh, poor little lamb, poor little lamb!” murmured Meg over the child, condemning with bitterness the boys and the whole world of men.
I taught one of the lads how to fold and unfold the wretched chair. Meg very reluctantly seated the unfortunate baby therein, gently fastening her with the strap.
“Wheer’s ’er dummy?” asked one of the boys in muffled, self-conscious tones. The infant began to cry thinly. Meg crouched over it. The ‘dummy’ was found in the gutter and wiped on the boy’s coat, then plugged into the baby’s mouth. Meg released the tiny clasping hand from over her finger, and mounted the dog cart, saying sternly to the boys:
“Mind you look after her well, poor little baby with no mother. God’s watching to see what you do to her—so you be careful, mind.”
They stood very shamefaced. George clicked to the mare, and as we started threw coppers to the boys. While we drove away I watched the little group diminish down the road.
“It’s such a shame,” she said, and the tears were in her voice, “—A sweet little thing like that——”
“Ay,” said George softly, “there’s all sorts of things in towns.”