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“As for Mary Mull, she give never a sign o’ trouble, but kep’ right on kissin’ Polly Twitter’s baby, whenever she met it, which Polly contrived t’ be often; an’ I doubt that she knowed–until she couldn’t help knowin’–that there was pity abroad at Tinkle Tickle for Tim Mull.

“‘Twas at the Methodist treat on Bide-a-Bit Point that Polly Twitter managed her mischief. ‘Twas a time well-chosen, too. Trust 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 ears–an’ haunted by Tim Mull’s wish for a child of his own–an’ with the laughter o’ the old women t’ blister her pride–she was like t’ lose her reason. An’ the more it went on, the worse it got: for the folk o’ the Tickle knowed very well that she’d give way t’ envy an’ anger, grievin’ for what she couldn’t have; an’ she knowed that they knowed an’ that they gossiped–an’ this was like oil on a fire.

“‘Tim,’ says she, one night, that winter, ‘will you listen t’ me? Thinkin’ things over, dear, I’ve chanced on a clever thing t’ do. ‘Tis queer, though.’

“‘I’ll not mind how queer, Mary.’