Next morning an old woman from the town four miles away brought back
Babette at the end of a string. Oh, such a soaked, bedraggled
Babette! The old woman had found her crouching in a doorway, a
bewildered little heap of palpitating femininity; and, reading the
address upon her collar, and may be scenting a not impossible reward,
had thought she might as well earn it for herself.
Robina was shocked, disgusted. To think that Babette--dainty,
petted, spoilt Babette--should have chosen of her own accord to go
down into the mud and darkness of the vulgar town; to leave her
curtained eiderdown to tramp the streets like any drab! Robina, to
whom Babette had hitherto been the ideal dog, moved away to hide her
tears of vexation. The old dame smiled. She had borne her good man
eleven, so she told us. It had been a hard struggle, and some had
gone down, and some were dead; but some, thank God, were doing well.
The old dame wished us good day; but as she turned to go an impulse
seized her. She crossed to where Babette, ashamed, yet half defiant,
sat a wet, woeful little image on the hearthrug, stooped and lifted
the little creature in her thin, worn arms.
"It's trouble you've brought yourself," said the old dame. "You
couldn't help it, could you?"
Babette's little pink tongue stole out.
"We understand, we know--we Mothers," they seemed to be saying to one
another.
And so the two kissed.
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