She had quiet eyes and that indefinable expression of yearning tenderness which we sometimes see in the eyes of a dear old maid who has missed her motherhood.
The shop had been clearing rapidly; and as soon as the men were gone, and while the other girls were sitting in corners to read penny novelettes, my waitress leaned over and asked me if I did not wish to go into the private room to attend to baby.
A moment afterwards I followed her into a small apartment at the end of the shop, and there a curious thing occurred.
She closed the door behind us and asked me in an eager whisper to allow her to see to baby.
I tried to excuse myself, but she whispered:
"Hush! I have a baby of my own, though they know nothing about it here, so you can safely trust me."
I did so, and it was beautiful to see the joy she had in doing what was wanted, saying all sorts of sweet and gentle things to my baby (though I knew they were meant for her own), as if the starved mother-heart in her were stealing a moment of maternal tenderness.
"There!" she said, "She'll be comfortable now, bless her!"
I asked about her own child, and, coming close and speaking in a whisper, she told me all about it.
It was a girl and it would be a year old at Christmas. At first she had put it out to nurse in town, where she could see it every evening, but the foster-mother had neglected it, and the inspector had complained, so she had been compelled to take it away. Now it was in a Home in the country, ten miles from Liverpool Street, and it was as bonny as a peach and as happy as the day is long.