The child stood in the midst of the group, one hand clinging tightly to Norah’s finger. She had said nothing since she had been suddenly left among the strangers. As the black woman rushed away from her she had made an instinctive movement to follow her, but Billy had been too quick, his hand falling on her tiny shoulder before she had taken two steps. At his touch the little thing had given a terrified start, and then, moved by some hidden instinct, had fled to Norah, whose hands were held out to her. Since then she had not relinquished her grip on Norah’s finger. She gazed from one to the other with great, unwinking eyes.
“Perhaps she hasn’t forgotten her name,” Jean suggested. “Try her.”
So Norah knelt down before the ragged little figure.
“Babs!” she said softly. “Babs!”
The baby looked at her. Something like a gleam of recognition came into her eyes. But beyond that she would give no sign, and at last Norah gave up the attempt.
“I’d better bath her now,” she said; “her hair must be quite dry before she goes to sleep. Billy, you boil the billy quick as you can.”
“What on earth are you going to dress her in?” Jim asked. “You can’t put those rags on her again.”
“I should think not!” his sister answered, eyeing the malodorous tatters disgustedly. “Jean and I will fix up something.”
“You had better fix it up out of a blanket, then,” her father observed. “I don’t suppose she has encountered water for fifteen months—and we don’t want her to take a chill.”
“All right,” said Jean, nodding wisely. “I’ve got an idea, and we have needles and thread.”