‘Give me your hand, little girl,’ continued the lady. ‘And take me to the baby; I’ll look at her anyhow.’
Peter was standing in a very sulky attitude at the corner where the railings were. In his heart of hearts he was extremely anxious that Flossy’s mission should fail. It seemed to him that every bit of the niceness, all the interest would go out of his life if he hadn’t Dickory. In some ways he considered that Dickory was more to him than she was to Flossy. He wondered how Flossy could even talk
of parting with her. He hoped sincerely she would fail in winning the lady’s pity.
But no, there they were both coming to meet him, the tall lady in deep black, and little eager wistful Flossy.
‘This is the lady what cried,’ she said to Peter. ‘She have come out to see our baby. Show her our baby, Peter.’
In solemn gloomy silence Peter unfolded a morsel of the tartan shawl which covered the baby’s face.
‘Let me have her in my arms, please,’ said the lady.
She took the baby tenderly, peeped once again at its small wee face, felt a sudden glow coming back into empty arms and more empty heart, and then turned again to the children.
‘I must be mad to do such a thing,’ she said. ‘Two little waifs in the street come and offer me a baby, and I don’t refuse it! There, baby,’ for Dickory