She only said: "You had better come
with me. My husband is away, but in a day of two he will be able to
get news to your brother. I'll take care of you till they come."
The woman arose gratefully, then swayed unsteadily under the weight
of the child. Maarda's arms were flung out, yearningly, longingly,
towards the baby.
"Where is your cradle basket to carry him in?" she asked, looking
about among the boxes and bales of merchandise the steamer had left
on the wharf.
"I have no cradle basket. I was too weak to make one, too poor to
buy one. I have _nothing_," said the woman.
"Then let me carry him," said Maarda. "It's quite a walk to my
place; he's too heavy for you."
The woman yielded the child gratefully, saying, "It's not a boy,
but a Tenas Klootchman."
Maarda could hardly believe her senses. That splendid, sturdy,
plump, big baby a Tenas Klootchman! For a moment her heart surged
with bitterness. Why had her own little girl been so frail, so
flower-like? But with the touch of that warm baby body, the
bitterness faded. She walked slowly, fitting her steps to those of
the sick woman, and jealously lengthening the time wherein she
could hold and hug the baby in her yearning arms.
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