“It don’t belong here, miss, for sure. The likes o’ that!”
“Doesn’t belong here? The poor little thing! Then she must be lost. She was pounding on your door and crying dreadfully. What shall I do with her?”
“’Deed, I don’t know, miss,” answered the maid, backing away and partly shutting the door, as if afraid that Eunice would insist on leaving the interesting infant there. It had immediately adopted Eunice as its protector, apparently, for it grasped her skirt with one hand, and with a thumb tucked deep into its mouth, it stood passively staring from one to the other. Somebody must do something, that was clear.
THE LOST BABY.
“Come on,” called Cricket, who had walked slowly on. “Won’t she go in?”
“Come back a minute. The maid says she doesn’t belong here. What shall we do with her? I suppose she’s lost. Can’t I leave her here? I have to go to school,” added Eunice, turning to the girl, who had now left only a crack of door open.
“’Deed, no. We didn’t find her,” said the girl, impertinently. “It doesn’t belong anywhere about here. Take her to the police station. We can’t take care of beggar’s brats,” and with that she shut the door, leaving Eunice staring as blankly at the door as the baby did at her dress.
“What a horrid, cross girl!” said Eunice, indignantly, at last, descending the steps slowly to accommodate her steps to the short, fat legs beside her. The child still clung closely to a fold of her dress.
“What shall we do with it? We’ll be dreadfully late for school.”