"'Pass un over,' says he.
"She gave un the child. 'Well!' says she, throwin' up her little hands. 'You looks perfectly natural. Do he not, Mary? It might be his own for all one could tell. Why, Tim, you was made for the like o' that. Do it feel nice?'
"'Ay,' says poor Tim, from his heart. 'It do.'
"'Well, well!' says Polly. 'I 'low you're wishin', Tim, for one o' your own.'
"'I is.'
"Polly kissed the baby, then, an' rubbed it cheek t' cheek, so that her fluffy little head was close t' Tim. She looked up in his eyes. ''Tis a pity!' says she. An' she sighed.
"'Pity?' says he. 'Why, no!'
"'Poor lad!' says she. 'Poor lad!'
"'What's this!' says Tim. 'I've no cause for grief.'
"There was tears in little Polly's blue eyes as she took back the child. ''Tis a shame,' says she, 'that you've no child o' your own! An' you so wonderful fond o' children! I grieves for you, lad. It fair breaks my heart.'