Deary me, what could be the matter?
“Why, that’s my baby.” Tilda grew tall with pride.
“Your baby!” The sad lady very nearly smiled.
“Yes, isn’t she grand?” Tilda shoved the cart close up to the bench. “She’s Maggie. Open your mouth, Maggie, and show the missis your teeth.”
“She is a dear baby,” agreed the lady wistfully, patting Maggie’s little tow head with tender fingers.
“Maybe you’ve got one at home, too?” ventured Tilda.
“N-no, not now.” The lady’s voice was, oh, so sorry! A big lump came right up into Tilda’s throat and tears had started on their way when a happy idea sent them straight back again.
In less than two shakes of a lambkin’s tail she had snatched wee Maggie from the gocart and landed her pat on the strange lady’s lap.
