One morning I was surprised on waking to find myself alone. As I came to my senses, however, I heard subdued sounds of approach, and presently the girl already mentioned, the tallest and gravest of the community, and regarded by all as their mother, appeared from the wood, followed by the multitude in jubilation manifest--but silent lest they should rouse the sleeping giant at whose door I lay. She carried a boy-baby in her arms: hitherto a girl-baby, apparently about a year old, had been the youngest. Three of the bigger girls were her nurses, but they shared their treasure with all the rest. Among the Little Ones, dolls were unknown; the bigger had the smaller, and the smaller the still less, to tend and play with. Lona came to me and laid the infant in my arms. The baby opened his eyes and looked at me, closed them again, and fell asleep. “He loves you already!” said the girl. “Where did you find him?” I asked. “In the wood, of course,” she answered, her eyes beaming with delight, “--where we always find them. Isn’t he a beauty? We’ve been out all night looking for him. Sometimes it is not easy to find!” “How do you know when there is one to find?” I asked. “I cannot tell,” she replied. “Every one makes haste to tell the other, but we never find out who told first. Sometimes I think one must have said it asleep, and another heard it half-awake. When there is a baby in the wood, no one can stop to ask questions; and when we have found it, then it is too late.” “Do more boy or girl babies come to the wood?” “They don’t come to the wood; we go to the wood and find them.” “Are there more boys or girls of you now?” I had found that to ask precisely the same question twice, made them knit their brows. “I do not know,” she answered. “You can count them, surely!” “We never do that. We shouldn’t like to be counted.” “Why?” “It wouldn’t be smooth. We would rather not know.” “Where do the babies come from first?” “From the wood--always. There is no other place they can come from.” She knew where they came from last, and thought nothing else was to be known about their advent. “How often do you find one?” “Such a happy thing takes all the glad we’ve got, and we forget the last time. You too are glad to have him--are you not, good giant?” “Yes, indeed, I am!” I answered. “But how do you feed him?” “I will show you,” she rejoined, and went away--to return directly with two or three ripe little plums. She put one to the baby’s lips. “He would open his mouth if he were awake,” she said, and took him in her arms. She squeezed a drop to the surface, and again held the fruit to the baby’s lips. Without waking he began at once to suck it, and she went on slowly squeezing until nothing but skin and stone were left. “There!” she cried, in a tone of gentle triumph. “A big-apple world it would be with nothing for the babies! We wouldn’t stop in it--would we, darling? We would leave it to the bad giants!”