Lydia looked from the cherub in the perambulator, crowing ecstatically
over the red bubble that tugged at her wrist, to the defiant Margery.

"I'll let her have it, Margery," she said reluctantly. "I'll make you
a doll's high chair."

"All right," said Margery, nonchalantly. "Face tag! So long!"

Lydia ran the perambulator along the board walk. The street was
macadamized and bordered with thrifty maple trees. Back of the maple
trees were frame houses, of cheap and stupid construction. Before one
of these Lydia paused. It was a dingy brown house, of the type known
as "story and a half." There was a dormer window at the top and a bow
window in the ground floor and a tiny entry porch at the front.

Lydia opened the gate in the picket fence and tugged the perambulator
through and up to the porch.

"There, baby mine, shall Lydia take you in for your supper?"

"Supper," cooed little Patience, lifting her arms.

Lydia lifted her to the porch with surprising ease. The little two
year old should have been no light weight for the little mother of
twelve. She stood on the porch, watching Lydia arrange Florence Dombey
in her place in the perambulator. Her resemblance to Lydia was marked.
The same dusty gold hair though lighter, the square little shoulders,
and fine set of the head. The red balloon tugging at her wrist, her
soiled little white dress blowing in the summer breeze, she finally
grew impatient of Lydia's attentions to Florence Dombey.