Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/380

372 the bewildered mite, smoothing the wet strands of brown hair under the scrap of cotton bonnet, twitching the inevitable baby cape into order. It was a pretty baby, with wisps of brown-gold silken hair, and large blue eyes.

“Is it a girl?” I asked one of the boys—“How old is she?”

“I don’t know,” he answered awkwardly, “We ’ve ’ad ’er about a three week.”

“Why, isn’t she your sister?”

“No—my mother keeps ’er,”—they were very reluctant to tell us anything.

“Poor little lamb!” cried Meg, in another access of pity, clasping the baby to her bosom with one hand, holding its winsome slippered feet in the other. She remained thus, stung through with acute pity, crouching, folding herself over the mite. At last she raised her head, and said, in a voice difficult with emotion:

“But you love her—don’t you?”

“Yes—she’s—she’s all right. But we ’ave to mind ’er,” replied the boy in great confusion.

“Surely,” said Meg, “Surely you don’t begrudge that. Poor little thing—so little, she is—surely you don’t grumble at minding her a bit?”

The boys would not answer.

“Oh, poor little lamb, poor little lamb!” murmured Meg over the child, condemning with bitterness the boys and the whole world of men.

I taught one of the lads how to fold and unfold the wretched chair. Meg very reluctantly seated the unfortunate baby therein, gently fastening her with the strap.