“Oh!” she cried. “There he is, coming to meet me! And you have soiled my white dress with your dusty shoes, and pulled my hair all awry. Run away, child, and go home to your mother!”
She set the child down, not unkindly, but so hastily that he stumbled and fell; but she did not see that, for she was hastening forward to meet her lover, who was coming along the road. (Now if the maiden had only known, he thought her twice as lovely with the child in her arms; but she did not know.)
The child lay in the dusty road and sobbed, till his mother came along and picked him up, and wiped away the tears with her blue gingham apron.
“I don’t believe that was an angel, after all,” he said.
“No!” said the mother. “But she may be one some day. She is young yet.”
“I am tired!” said the child. “Will you carry me home, mother?”
“Why, yes!” said the mother. “That is what I came for.”
The child put his arms round his mother’s neck, and she held him tight and trudged along the road, singing the song he liked best.
Suddenly he looked up in her face.