After supper the men went out on the porch with their pipes and we to the sitting-room, where Molly, the story-teller, seated herself in a comfortable chair, her feet outstretched before her. She made a lap, a generous lap, to which she tried to beguile the baby, Letty. Mrs. White had disappeared.
"You-all come here to me, Letty." She held out her large dirty hands to the blue-eyed waif. In its blue-checked apron, the remains of fish and ham around its mouth, its large blue eyes wandering from face to face in search of the pale mother who had for a time left her, Letty stood for a moment motionless and on the verge of tears.
"You-all come to Molly and go By-O."
There was some magic in that word that at long past eight charmed the eighteen-months'-old baby. She toddled across the floor to the mill-girl, who lifted her tenderly into her ample lap. The big, awkward girl, scarcely more than a child herself, uncouth, untutored, suddenly gained a dignity and a grace maternal—not too much to say it, she had charm.
Letty leaned her head against Molly's breast and smiled contentedly, whilst the mill-girl rocked softly to and fro.
"Shall Molly sing By-O?"
She should. The little face, lifted, declared its request.
"Letty must sing, too," murmured the young girl. "Sing By-O! We'll all sing it together."
Letty covered her eyes with one hand-to feign sleep and sang her two words sweetly, "By-O! By-O!" and Molly joined her. Thus they rocked and hummed, a picture infinitely touching to see.
One of these two would soon be an unclaimed foundling when the unknown woman had faded out of existence. The other—who can say how to her maternity would come!