The baby with canary hair looked at the receding nurse and carriage with widening eyes and reddening cheeks.  Then, opening her mouth, she uttered the cry of the deserted; but the panic-stricken nurse did not hear her, and, if she had, what were the cries of other children to her?  Her only business was to get home quickly with her young charge.

About five minutes after these events, Jonas and Pomona came hurrying along the path.  They, too, had stayed away much longer than they had intended, and had suddenly given up their search for the American, whom they had hoped to find in high relief upon the base of the Albert Memorial.  Stepping quickly to the child, who still stood sobbing by the bench, Jonas exclaimed, “You poor itty—!”

And then he stopped suddenly.  Pomona also stood for a second, and then she made a dash at the child, and snatched it up.  Gazing sharply at its tear-smeared countenance, she exclaimed, “What’s this?”

The baby did not seem able to explain what it was, and only answered by a tearful sob.  Jonas did not say a word; but, with the lithe quickness of a dog after a rat, he began to search behind and under benches, in the bushes, on the grass, here, there, and everywhere.

About nine o’clock that evening, Pomona came to us with tears in her eyes, and the canary-haired baby in her arms, and told us that Corinne was lost.  They had searched everywhere; they had gone to the police; telegrams had been sent to every station; they had done everything that could be done, but had found no trace of the child.

“If I hadn’t this,” sobbed Pomona, holding out the child, “I believe I’d go wild.  It isn’t that she can take the place of my dear baby, but by a-keepin’ hold of her I believe we’ll git on the track of Corinne.”

We were both much affected by this news, and Euphemia joined Pomona in her tears.

“Jonas is scourin’ the town yet,” said Pomona.  “He’ll never give up till he drops.  But I felt you ought to know, and I couldn’t keep this little thing in the night-air no longer.  It’s a sweet child, and its clothes are lovely.  If it’s got a mother, she’s bound to want to see it before long; an’ if ever I ketch sight of her, she don’t git away from me till I have my child.”

“It is a very extraordinary case,” I said.  “Children are often stolen, but it is seldom we hear of one being taken and another left in its place, especially when the children are of different ages, and totally unlike.”

“That’s so,” said Pomona.  “At first, I thought that Corinne had been changed off for a princess, or something like that, but nobody couldn’t make anybody believe that my big, black-haired baby was this white-an’-yaller thing.”

“Can’t you find any mark on her clothes,” asked Euphemia, “by which you could discover her parentage?  If there are no initials, perhaps you can find a coronet or a coat of arms.”

“No,” said Pomona, “there aint nothin’.  I’ve looked careful.  But there’s great comfort to think that Corinne’s well stamped.”