agine having a little coquette of my own a bit dirty like that, and
can't just see Nance Olden with a spick-and-span clean baby, all
feathers and lace, like a bored little grown-up.

"You're a mouse," I gurgled down at her. "You're a sweetheart. You're
a--"

And suddenly I heard a cry and rush behind me.

It was a false alarm; just a long-legged girl of twelve rushing round
the corner, followed by a lot of others. It hadn't been meant for me,
of course, but in the second when I had remembered that precious paper
and Tausig's rage when he should miss it, I had pulled my hand away
from that bit baby's and started to run.

The poor little tot! There isn't any reason in the world for the
fancies they take any more than for our own; eh, Mag? Why should she
have been attracted to me just because I was so undignified as to dance
with the piccaninnies?

But do you know what that little thing did? She thought I was playing
with her. She gave a crow of delight and came bowling after me.

That finished me. I stooped and picked her up in my arms, throwing her
up in the air to hear her crow and feel her come down again.

"Mouse," I said, "we'll just have a little trip together. The nurse
that'd lose you deserves to worry till you're found. The mother that's
lucky enough to own you will be benefited hereafter by a sharp scare on
your account just now. Come on, sweetheart!"

Oh, the feel of a baby in your arms, Mag! It makes the Cruelty seem a
perfectly unreal thing, a thing one should be unutterably ashamed of
imagining, of accusing human nature of; a thing only an irredeemably
vile thing could imagine. Just the weight of that little body riding
like a bonny boat at anchor on your arm, just the cocky little way it
sits up, chirping and confident; just the light touch of a bit of a
hand on your collar; just that is enough to push down brick walls; to
destroy pictures of bruised and maimed children that endure after the
injuries are healed; to scatter records that even I--I, Nancy
Olden--can't believe and believe, too, that other women have carried
their babies, as I did some other woman's baby, across the Square.

On the other side I set her down. I didn't want to. I was greedy of
every moment that I had her. But I wanted to get some change ready
before climbing up the steps to the L-station.

She clutched my dress as we stood there a minute in a perfectly
irresistible way. I know now why men marry baby-wome