Give me it. I--found it."
But the terror still darkened the mother's eyes.
"And where did you find it?"
"On the bench. She left it. She forgot it. Ain't it mine now?"
pleadingly. "I waited, honest, but she didn't come back."
Mrs. Lynch was examining the small wonder with timid fingers, lifting
fold after fold of shining satin and dainty muslin.
"Who was she?" she asked.
"A kid." Little Beryl kindled to the interest of her story. Had not
something very thrilling happened in her simple life--a life the
greatest interest of which was to carry to the store each day the small
bundle of crocheted lace which her mother made. "She was a swell kid.
She played in the park, waitin' for a big man."
"Did she talk to you?" breathlessly.
Beryl avoided this question. The beautiful little girl had _not_ spoken
to her, though she had hung by very close, inviting an approach with
hungry eyes.
"She was just a little kid," loftily. Then, "Ain't the doll mine?"
Mrs. Lynch patted down the outermost garment. "Yes, it's yours it is,
darlin'. At least--" she hesitated over a fleeting sense of justice,
"maybe the little stranger will be a-coming back for her doll.
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