Winny fell on her knees in a rapture.
"Oh, Miss Holland!" she cried. "Don't you love him?"
Jane admitted that she rather liked him.
"She's a wretch," said Sophy. "Baby duckums, she says she rather likes you."
Baby chuckled as if he appreciated the absurdity of Jane's moderation.
"Oh, don't you want," said Winny, "don't you want to kiss his little feet? Wouldn't you love to have him for your very own?"
"No, Winny, I shouldn't know what to do with him."
"Wouldn't you?" said Mrs. Heron.
"Feel," said Winny, "how soft he is. He's got teeny, teeny hairs, like down, golden down, just there, on his little back."
Jane stooped and stroked the golden down. And at the touch of the child's body, a fine pain ran from her finger-tips to her heart, and she drew back, as one who feels, for the first time, the touch of life, terrible and tender.