“One that will cry?” eagerly asked Nannette.

“Yes, one that will cry, and laugh, too, after a bit,” answered the woman, all the time looking keenly about her; and then in a hushed voice she asked the child if her mother was at home.

“No—­she’s gone to see my auntie, shall I call her?” replied Nannette, jumping to her feet, and clapping her hands, from a feeling as if in some way she was to have her long-wished-for live baby.

“No; don’t call her; and if you want a baby that will cry, you must be very quiet, and listen to me.  Mark me now—­have you a quarter of a dollar, to pay for a baby?”

“I guess so,” answered Nannette; “I’ve a lot of money up stairs.”  And running up to her room, she climbed into a chair, took down her money box from a shelf, and emptying all her pennies and small silver coin into her apron, ran down again.

“This is as much as a quarter of a dollar, isn’t it?”

The woman saw at a glance that there was more than that amount, and hastily taking poor little Nannette’s carefully hoarded pennies, she whispered: 

“Now carry the baby up-stairs and keep it in your own little bed.  Be careful to make no noise, for it is sound asleep.  Don’t tell anybody you have it, until it cries.  Mind that.  When you hear it cry, you may know it is hungry.”

Then the woman went hurriedly away, and Nannette never saw her again.

Nannette’s little heart was nearly breaking with delight at the thought of having a real, live baby; and holding the bundle fast in her arms, where the woman had placed it, she began trudging up-stairs with it.  Finally puffing and panting, her cheeks all aglow, she reached her little bed, and turning down the covers, she put in the bundle and covering it up carefully, she gave it some loving little pats, saying softly, “My baby, my real, little live baby that will cry!” And then she carefully tripped out of the room and down-stairs again.

Very soon Nannette’s mother came home, bringing her a fine large apple, which drove all thoughts of the baby from her mind, and it was only when night came, and she was seated at the supper-table with her papa and mamma that she remembered her baby; but at that time, suddenly, from somewhere that surely was in the house, came a baby’s cry; and clapping her hands, her eyes dancing with joy, Nannette began to slide down from her chair, saying with great emphasis, “That’s my baby.”

Her mother laughed. “Your baby, Nannette?”

“Yes, mamma, my baby; don’t you hear it cry?  ’Tis hungry!” And she started to run up-stairs, but her mother called her back.

“Why, Nannette, what ails you?  What do you mean about your baby?” she asked in surprise.

“Why MY BABY, mamma!  I bought it for a quarter of a dollar! a baby that cries—­not a mis’ble make b’leve baby.  Oh, how it does cry! it must be awful hungry!” And away she darted up the stairs.