But the women only laughed and bade her go and see.
And the faces at the window overhead laughed too, and said there was such a thing as having too much of a good thing.
Poppy passed them all and went in, and then she heard her mother's voice calling to her to come upstairs. Her mother was in bed, and she beckoned Poppy to come up to her.
'Poppy, child,' she said, rather sorrowfully, 'I've got a present for you.'
Just what the neighbours had told her; and the child wondered more and more what this present could be. It was a very long time now since Poppy had had a present; she had never had one since her father went away, and it was six months since he had left them.
Poppy often wondered where he had gone. Her mother never talked about him now, and the neighbours shook their heads when he was mentioned, and said he was a bad man. But he had often brought Poppy a present on a Saturday night when he got his wages; sometimes he brought her a packet of sweets, sometimes an apple, and once a beautiful box of dolls' tea-things. But since he went away there had been no presents for Poppy. Her mother had had to work very hard to get enough money to pay the rent and to get bread for them to eat—there was no money to spare for anything else.
What could this present be, about which all the neighbours knew?
'Look here, Poppy,' said her mother; and she pointed to a little bundle of flannel lying on one side of the bed.
Poppy went round and peeped into it; and there she saw her present—a tiny baby with a very red face and a quantity of black hair, and with its little fists holding its small fat cheeks.
'Oh, what a beauty!' said Poppy, in an awestruck voice. 'Is it for me, mother?'