“Never—never,” old Weathereye would have unfeelingly replied had he heard her.
On this particular occasion Miss Scragley extended her walk far into the very wood—forest, she romantically called it—where Ransey Tansey and his pets were enjoying themselves.
She and her niece wandered on and on by the banks of the stream, till they came to the place where little Babs lay, still sound asleep in her hammock, and this was swaying gently to and fro in the summer wind.
“O Eedie!” cried Miss Scragley, “why, I’ve found a child!”
“Oh, the wee darling!” exclaimed Eedie; “mayn’t I kiss it, auntie?”
“If you kissed it,” said the lady, as if she knew all about babies and could write a book about them—“if you kissed it, dear, it would awake, and the creature’s yells would resound through the dark depths of the forest.”
“But there is no one near,” she continued; “it must be deserted by its unfeeling parents, and left here to perish.”
She went a little nearer now and looked down on the sleeping child’s face.
A very pretty face it was, the rosy lips parted, the flush of sleep upon her face; and one wee chubby hand and arm was lying bare on the shawl.
“Oh dear!” cried Miss Scragley, “I feel strangely agitated. I cannot let the tiny angel perish in the silvan gloom. I must—you must, Eedie—well, we must, dear, carry it home with us.”