hedge was too small for him to push through so he ran around the end,
and approached the prostrate form of the woman.

Her eyes were closed and she lay so still that Ethel Blue, who was
rubbing her hands, shook her head as she glanced up gratefully at the
new arrival.

"What's this, what's this?" asked Mr. Emerson in his full, rich voice.
Its mere sound seemed to carry comfort to the poor creature lying at
his feet. He knelt beside her. "Hungry, eh?" he asked. "We'll see
about that right off. Can you eat these cookies?" He took a thin tin
box out of his pocket and opened it. "I have a little granddaughter
named Ethel Brown who insists on my keeping cookies in my pocket all
the time so that I can eat them when I'm driving. See if you can take
a bite of this."

A fluttering hand took the cooky and put it between the pale lips.

Helped by the girls the woman struggled to her feet and stood wavering
before she tried to take a step. She was a young woman with very black
hair and gray-blue eyes and a face that was meant to be unlined and
pretty and not gaunt with hunger and furrowed by anxiety.

"You're very good," she whispered feebly.

Supported on each side she managed to reach the sidewalk, where she
looked about wildly for her baby. An expression that was sad but
infinitely relieved came over her features when she saw the two
children sitting in the gravel of the walk filling their tiny hands
with pebbles.