the little
minx for that! She was swift t' bite--an' clever t' fix her white
little fangs. There was a flock o' women, Mary Mull among un, in
gossip by the baskets. An' Polly Twitter was there, too,--an' the
baby. Sun under a black sea; then the cold breath o' dusk, with fog
in the wind, comin' over the hills.

"'Tim Mull,' says Polly, 'hold the baby.'

"'Me?' says he. I'm a butterfingers, Polly.'

"'Come!' says she.

"'No, no, Polly! I'm timid.'

"She laughed at that. 'I'd like t' see you _once_,' says she, 'with a
wee baby in your arms, as if 'twas your _own_. You'd look well. I'm
thinkin'. Come, take un, Tim!'

"'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.'

"Some of the women laughed. An' this--somehow--moved Mary Mull t'
vanish from that place.

* * * * *

"Well, now, Polly Twitter had worked her mischief. Mary Mull was never
the same after that. She took t' the house. No church no more--no
walkin' the roads. She was never seed abroad. An' she took t' tears
an' broodin'. No ripple o' smiles no more--no song in the kitchen. She
went downcast about the work o' the house, an' she sot overmuch alone
in the twilight--an' she sighed too often--an' she looked too much at
t' sea--an' she kep' silent too long--an' she cried too much in the
night. She'd have nothin' t' do with children no more; nor would she
let Tim Mull so much as lay a hand on the head of a youngster. Afore
this, she'd never fretted for a child at all; she'd gone her way
content in the world. But now--with Polly Twitter's vaunt forever in
her e