The woman held a plate of cake which she thrust at Tilly
the instant they were on the same level, saying: "The cake
was just splendid, tell your mother; it's a lovely recipe,
and will you tell her to take this, and see how well I succeeded?"

"And--ah--Miss Louder," said the man, as the stout woman rustled away,
"here are some _Banner of Lights;_ I think she'd be interested
in some of the articles on the true principles of the inspirational
faith ----" Tilly placed the bundle of newspapers at the base
of her load--"and--and, I wish you'd tell your dear mother that,
under the angels, her mustard plaster really saved my life."

"I'll tell her," said Tilly.

She had advanced a little space before a young girl in a bright
blue silk gown flung a radiant presence between her and the door.
"Oh, Miss Tilly," she murmured, blushing, "will you just
give your mother this?--it's--it's Jim's photograph.
You tell her it's ALL right; and SHE was exactly right,
and _I_ was wrong. She'll understand."

Tilly, with a look of resignation, accepted a stiff package done
up in white tissue paper. She had now only three steps to take:
she took two, only two, for--"Miss Tilly, PLEASE!" a voice pealed
around the corner, while a flushed and breathless young woman,
with a large baby toppling over her lean shoulder, staggered
into view. "My!" she panted, "ain't it tiresome lugging a child!
I missed the car, of course, coming home from ma's. Oh, say, Tilly,
your mother was so good, she said she'd tend Blossom next time I
went to the doctor's, and ----"