"Perhaps," said her mother. But the answer did not satisfy Miriam.
"You told me you had lost a little girl once," she said.
Mrs. Morgenstern had never yet uttered the word death in her hearing. As to the little dead daughter, she had to the sister said only that she had lost her. Miriam had to interpret the phrase for herself.
"Yes, dear child," answered her mother, not yet seeing what she was driving at.
"Don't you think, mamma," pursued Miriam, with the tears rising in her great black eyes, "that that's her? I do. I am sure it is my little sister."
Mrs. Morgenstern had the tenderest memories of her lost darling, and turned away to hide her feelings. Meantime a little conversation had arisen in the group. Lucy had let go her hold of Poppie, whose tears had now ceased. Miriam drew near, shyly, and possessed herself of the hand of the vagrant. Her mother turned and saw her, and motherhood spoke aloud in her heart. How did it manifest itself? In drawing her child away from the dirt that divided their hands? That might have proved her a dam, but would have gone far to disprove her motherhood.
"What shall we do with her, Miriam?" she said.
"Ask nurse to wash her in the bath, and put one of my frocks on her."
Poppie snatched her hand from Miriam's, and began to look about her with wild-eyed search after a hole to run into. Mrs. Morgenstern saw that she was frightened, and turned away to Lucy, who was on the other side of the rose-tree, talking to Mr. Sargent.
"Couldn't we do something to make the child tidy, Lucy?" she said.