“I sent it a warm petticoat last week,” said Mrs. Bray.
“You did?”
“Yes; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to the woman.”
“Was it a nice warm one?”
“Yes.”
Pinky drew a sigh. “I saw the poor baby last night; hadn't anything on but dirty cotton rags. It was lying asleep in a cold cellar on a little heap of straw. The woman had given it something, I guess, by the way it slept. The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam McFaddon's. She spends everything she can lay her hands on in policies and whisky.”
“She's paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby at night and on Sundays,” said Mrs. Bray.
“It wouldn't help the baby any if she got ten dollars,” returned Pinky. “It ought to be taken away from her.”
“But who's to do that? Sally Long sold it to the two beggar women, and they board it out. I have no right to interfere; they own the baby, and can do as they please with it.”
“It could be got to the almshouse,” said Pinky; “it would be a thousand times better off.”