Tommy gave a sudden full-sized howl. He had heard no good of the workhouse.
“The baby is mine!” pleaded Clare.
“Are you the father of it?” said the big policeman.
“Yes, I think so: I saved her life.—She would have been drowned if I hadn’t looked for her when I heard the splash!” reasoned Clare, his face drawn with grief and the struggle to keep from crying.
“She’s not yours,” said the magistrate. “She belongs to the parish. Take her away, James.”
The big policeman came up to take her. Clare would have held her tight, but was afraid of hurting her. He did draw back from the outstretched hands, however, while he put a question or two.
“Please, sir, will the parish be good to her?” he asked.
“Much better than you.”
“Will it let me go and see her?” he asked again, with an outbreaking sob.
“You can’t go anywhere till you’re out of this,” answered the big policeman, and, not ungently, took the baby from him.