"I have a large acquaintance in a poor neighbourhood," said the doctor. "The women of my quarter have many babies. If you will give me a day or two, I may find what you want." He made a note—"Light hair, blue eyes; birth somewhere near December 2, 1872,—age, therefore, about thirteen months."
At a quarter before three in the afternoon a woman, carrying a baby, stood inside the railway station at Birmingham. She was young, thinly clad, though the day was cold; her face was delicate and refined, though pinched with want and trouble. She looked at her child every minute, and her tears fell fast.
The doctor arrived, looked round, and walked up to her. "Now, Mrs. Anthony," he said, "I've come for the baby."
"Oh! If it were not for the workhouse I would never part with him."
"Come, my good woman, you know you promised."
"Take him," she said suddenly. She almost flung him in the doctor's arms, and rushed away.
Above the noise of the trains and the station, the doctor heard her sobbing as she ran out of the station.
"She'll soon get over it," he said. But, as has already been observed, the doctor was as yet inexperienced in the feminine heart.
About six o'clock that evening the lady who had received the baby had arrived at her house in Bryanston Square.