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cloth back. It was—yes, it was unmistakably a baby! She looked up, her eyes wide. “But what are we to do with it?”
    Mrs. Overthewall was adjusting her shawls. “ Do with it?” she repeated in surprise. “Why, raise it, of course. And love it, and kiss it when it wants kissing. What else do you do with babies?”
    “But we already have several babies at home,” Jamie said with great firmness. “We don’t need any more babies.”
    “It’s true,” Libby said, in an apologetic tone. “Our house is full. I overheard Mama saying to Papa just the other day that we have more than enough children.”
    “Not that Mr. or Mrs. Sutton could bear to give up any they already have,” Deirdre added, with a comforting glance at Mouse, who had put her thumb in her mouth and was trying not to cry. “The Suttons are very, very, very fond of all of their children.”
    “I know they are,” said Mrs. Overthewall, beaming. “That’s exactly why I thought of you. You’re the perfect family for this baby, precisely because there are so many of you. You can all pitch in to help.” She paused. “This baby needs you. It has no family, you see.”
    Mouse took her thumb out of her mouth. “But doesn’t its mother want it?” she cried, suddenly struck with pity for a baby without a family.
    Mrs. Overthewall was stern. “Its mother,” she said, “is too busy to be bothered with babies.”
    “Too busy?” Deirdre asked incredulously.
    “We have no room for another baby,” Jamie growled. “All the beds are full. And there are no chairs for a baby to sit in.”
    Libby sighed. “In fact, there’s hardly room to step without knocking a baby over.”
    “That’s right,” Jamie said. He scowled. “No more babies!”
    At this, there seemed nothing more to say. Regretfully, Deirdre handed back the basket. “You are most kind to think of us, Mrs. Overthewall,” she said in a formal tone. “And I am sure that Flora is a perfectly delightful baby. But the children are right. We can’t accept her.”
    “Oh, dear,” cried the lady, sounding quite aggrieved. “You’re sure you won’t reconsider?”
    “Quite sure,” the children chorused.
    “But what am I to do with it?”
    “You could give it back,” Libby suggested.
    “I can’t,” Mrs. Overthewall replied crossly. “There’s no one to give it back to . Everyone’s gone.” (Of course, you already know this, since you heard Mrs. Overthewall tell Emily to catch the early train to London.)
    “But where did it come from?” Deirdre asked, thinking how very odd it was that the baby’s mother had gone away and left it behind. But then the whole thing was odd, top to bottom.
    “Never mind,” said Mrs. Overthewall. “The question is, where is it to go, if you won’t have it?”
    Libby ventured, “Perhaps Miss Potter would like to have it. She draws pictures and writes stories for children.”
    “Miss Potter doesn’t have any babies,” Mouse said, around her thumb. “I’m sure she’s very lonely.”
    “She would take good care of it,” Jamie said helpfully. “She likes animals.”
    Mrs. Overthewall brightened. “Out of the mouths of babes,” she exclaimed. “Why, Miss Potter, of course! Why didn’t I think of her?” She flung her scarves around her neck and took the basket. “There you are, then. That’s settled, and quite agreeably, too, I’d say. Now go along and climb mountains or crawl through jungles or whatever else you’ve a mind to. Cheerio!”
    With that, there was another clap of thunder, a gust of wind, and a sheet of blinding rain. When it cleared, the path was empty. Mrs. Overthewall was gone.
    Libby frowned. “Did we . . . did we make that up?”
    “I don’t think so,” Deirdre said doubtfully. “Did we?”
    “She was a fairy,” Mouse asserted with confidence, around her thumb.
    “Mouse is right,” Jamie said. “Fairies sometimes bring babies.”
    “Storks bring babies,” Libby said, for that was the tale her mother