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.
"A cooky won't hurt the baby either," decided Mr. Emerson, and he gave
one to each of the children.
The Ethels had no chance to ask him what he meant to do without their
discovery hearing them, so they helped the woman into the machine, put
in the two children and climbed in themselves. To their great interest
Mr. Emerson turned the car about and headed it for his own home.
"I wonder what Grandmother will say," murmured Ethel Brown to Ethel
Blue, who was steadying the ill woman's head as it lay against the back
of the seat.
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