them," thought Polly, turning into the wide, sunny street, where West End-dom promenaded at that hour.
The babies were out in full force, looking as gay and delicate and sweet as the snow-drops, hyacinths, and daffodils on the banks, whence the snow had melted. But somehow the babies didn't do Polly the good she expected, though they smiled at her from their carriages, and kissed their chubby hands as she passed them, for Polly had the sort of face that babies love. One tiny creature in blue plush was casting despairing glances after a very small lord of creation, who was walking away with a toddling belle in white, while a second young gentleman in gorgeous purple gaiters was endeavoring to console the deserted damsel.
"Take hold of Master Charley's hand, Miss Mamie, and walk pretty, like Willy and Flossy," said the maid.
"No, no, I want to do wid Willy, and he won't let me. Do 'way, Tarley; I don't lite you," cried little Blue-bonnet, casting down her ermine muff, and sobbing in a microscopic handkerchief, the thread-lace edging on which couldn't mitigate her woe, as it might have done that of an older sufferer.
"Willy likes Flossy best, so stop crying and come right along, you naughty child."
As poor little Dido was jerked away by the unsympathetic maid, and Purple-gaiters essayed in vain to plead his cause, Polly said to herself, with a smile and a sigh,—
"How early the old story begins!"
