Miss Lydia silently shook her head; instantly Mary's anger turned to fright.
"Oh, Miss Lydia—please! I promise you he shall never have the dimmest idea—why, he couldn't have! It wouldn't do, you know. But I want him just to—to look at."
Miss Lydia was pale. She may have been a born gambler, but never had she taken such a chance as this—to give Johnny back, even for a week, to the people who once had thrown him away, but who now were ready to do everything for him, give him anything he wanted!—and a boy wants so many things! "No," she said, "no."
Mary gave a starved cry, then dropped on her knees, clutched at the small, rough, floury hand and tried to kiss it.
"A mother has a claim," she said, passionately.
Miss Lydia, pulling her hand away, nodded. "Yes, a mother has."
"Then let him come. Oh, let him come!"
"Are you his mother?"
Mary fell back, half sitting on the floor, half kneeling at Miss Lydia's feet. "What do you mean? You know—"
"Sometimes," said Miss Lydia, "I think I'm his mother."