"Dis yere chile ain't gwine to be no trouble to nobody," put in Aunt
Mornin. "She's a powerful good chile to begin with, 'n' she's a chile
that's gwine to thrive. She hain't done no cryin' uv no consequence yit,
'n' whar a chile starts out dat dar way it speaks well for her. If Mornin
had de raisin' o' dat chile, dar wouldn't be no trouble 't all. Bile der
milk well 'n' d'lute down right, 'n' a chile like dat ain't gwine to have
no colick. My young Mistis Mars D'Willerby bought me from, I've raised
three o' hern, an' I'm used to bilin' it right and d'lutin' it down
right. Dar's a heap in de d'lutin'. Dis yere bottle's ready now, Mis'
Doty, ef ye want it."

"It's the very bottle I raised Martin Luther on," said Mrs. Doty. "It
brings back ole times to see it. She takes it purty well, don't she?
Massy sakes! How f'erce she looks for sich a little thing!"

Later in the day there arose the question of how she should be disposed
of for the night, and it was in the midst of this discussion that Tom De
Willoughby entered.

"Thar ain't but one room; I s'pose he'll sleep in that," said Mrs. Doty,
"'n' the Lord knows he don't look the kind o' critter to know what to do
with a chile. We hain't none o' us seen him since this mornin'. I guess
he's kinder wanderin' round. Does any of you know whar he is? We might ax
what he 'lows to do."

Tom bent down over the child as it lay in the woman's lap. No one could
see his face.

"I know what he's going to do," he said. "He's going away to-morrow after
the funeral."

"'N' take the child?" in a chorus.

"No," said Tom, professing to be deeply interested in the unclosing of
the small red fist. "I'm going to take the child."

There were four sharp exclamations, and for a second or so all four women
gazed at him with open mouths. It was Mrs. Doty who first recovered
herself sufficiently to speak. She gave him a lively dig with her elbow.

"Now, Tom D'Willerby," she said, "none of your foolin'. This yere ain't
no time for it."

"Mars D'Willerby," said Aunt Mornin, "dis chile's mother's a-lyin' dead
in the nex' room."

Tom stooped a trifle lower. He put out both his hands and took the baby
in them.

"I'm not foolin'," he said, rather uncertainly. "I'm in earnest, ladies.
The mother is dead and the man's going away. There's nobody else to claim
her, he tells me, and so I'll claim her. There's enough of me to take
care of her, and I mean to do it."

It was so extraordinary a sensa