In Connection with the De Willoughby Claim. Frances Hodgson Burnett

always mighty clever with children.”

      “I’ll do all I can for her,” said Tom, “though I suppose that isn’t much.”

      The young woman—she had left her own baby in the store with her husband—patted the little pillow lightly into shape.

      “Ye’ll larn a heap by watchin’ her,” she said. “Jest watch her close ‘n’ she’ll teach you herself. What do you do about her milk?” anxiously.

      “I’ve been told to do several things,” said Tom. “I’ve been told to boil it half an hour and not to boil it at all, and to give her all she wanted and not to give her all she wanted. I’m a little mixed about it.”

      “Wal, I hain’t had but five, but I’ve allus let it come to a bile an’ then kinder used my reason about givin’ it. Seems like the mejumer ye air with children, the better. But, Lordy! I guess Mornin knows. She raised her young mistress’s.”

      She kissed the child before she left it, and when she reentered the store, hurriedly took her own struggling offspring from its father’s arms, settled its pink dress and sunbonnet with a nervous, caressing motion, and, carrying it to the door, stood with it pressed against her breast while she seemed to be looking out at the distant mountains. She did not move until her husband had completed his purchases and came to her. And when she followed him out to take her place in the waggon, her eyes were bright and moist.

      “Don’t ye take the Blair’s Holler road, Dave,” she said, as he touched up his horses. “Go round by Jones’s.”

      “What’s yer notion, Louizy?” he asked.

      “ ’Tain’t nothin’ but a notion, I reckon,” she answered; “but I don’t—I don’t want to hev to pass by that thar grave jest to-day. Take the other road.”

      And being an easy-going, kindly fellow, he humoured her and went the other way.

      In the store itself the spirit of hilariousness increased as the day advanced. By mail-time the porch was crowded and Tom had some slight difficulty in maintaining order.

      “Say, boys,” he said, “there’s got to be quiet here. If we can’t carry on the establishment without disturbing the head of the household at present asleep in the back room, this post-office has to close and you can get a new postmaster. That’d suit you, I daresay. Some fellow, now, that wouldn’t half’tend to his business, not more than half, and that hadn’t legislative ability enough to carry on a precinct, let alone a county. You want a man of that kind, I suppose. That’s what you’re working for.”

      “Tom,” said one of the younger ones, “bring her out ‘n’ let’s see her. You’ve been braggin’ on her all day, but ye hain’t let us see her.”

      Half a dozen others joined in the cry.

      “Yes,” they said, “bring her out, Tom.”

      Tom did not rise from his seat. He tilted his chair back and balanced himself on his heels, his hands thrust into his pockets.

      “Boys,” he said, “I’ll bring her out on one condition, and that is that there shall be no shines. I wouldn’t have her scared or upset for a good deal. There’s a joke in this sort of thing, I daresay; but it ain’t all joke. If I bring her out and show her, there’s to be no crowding and no row.”

      It was agreed that there should be none, and he left his chair and went to the inner room again. When he returned, the men who had been lounging in the porch had come in, though perhaps not one among them understood his own unusual interest in the affair. Babies were not rarities in Hamlin County, every cabin and farm-house in the region being filled to overflowing with white-headed, sunburnt youngsters. And yet when Tom appeared there was a moment of silence. The child was asleep, its tiny black head resting peacefully against the huge chest of its bearer. There was no trace of confusion or awkwardness in his face, he seemed well content with his burden, and perhaps it was the quiet of his manner as much as anything else which caused the slight hush to fall upon those around him.

      At last a middle-aged farmer stepped forward. He gave the child a long and rather curious look.

      “Gal, ain’t it?” he enquired.

      “Yes,” Tom answered.

      “Wal, ’tain’t a bad thing fer her she’s got some un to stan’ by her; gals needs it.”

      Tom gave her a long look too. She was sleeping very quietly; it might have been her mother’s breast she was lying against.

      “Well,” he said, “here’s a man to stand by her,” and then he raised his head and looked at the rest of them.

      “Boys,” he said, “that’s a promise. Remember it.”

      And he carried her back.

CHAPTER VI

       Table of Contents

      The rooms at the back had never seemed so quiet before as when, at the close of the day, he went into them. They seemed all the quieter by contrast with the excitement of the past hours. In the kitchen Mornin was giving the final touches to the supper, and in the room which was at once sitting-room and bedroom, the wooden cradle had fitted itself in a corner near the fireplace and wore an air of permanent establishment remarkable to contemplate when one considered how unlooked-for an incident it was.

      On the threshold of this apartment Tom paused a moment. Such silence reigned that he could hear the soft, faint breathing of the child as it lay asleep. He stopped a second or so to listen to it. Then he stooped down, and began to loosen his shoes gently. As he was doing it, Mornin caught sight of him in passing the open door.

      “Mars Tom,” she said, “what’s ye a-gwine fer to do?”

      “I’m going to take them off,” he answered, seriously. “They’ll make too much noise.”

      The good soul in the kitchen chuckled.

      “Now,” she said, “now, Mars Tom, dar ye go right now a-settin’ out to ruinate a good chile, ’stead o’ ustin’ it ter things—a-settin’ out ter ruinate it. Don’t never tip aroun’ fer no chile. Don’t ye never do it, ‘n’ ye won’t never haf ter. Tippin’ roun’ jest spiles ’em. Tell ye, Mornin never tipped roun’ when she had em’ ter raise. Mornin started out right from de fust.”

      Tom looked at the cradle.

      “She’ll rest easier,” he said. “And so shall I. I must get a pair of slippers.” And he slipped out of his shoes and stood ready to spend the evening in his stocking-feet. A solitary tallow candle stood upon the table, shedding its yellow light upon all surrounding objects to the best of its ability, and, seeing that its flickering brightness fell upon the small sleeper’s face, he placed it at the farther end of the high mantel.

      “She’ll be more comfortable,” he said. And then sat down feeling at ease with his conscience.

      Mornin went back to her supper shaking her head.

      “By de time she’s a year old, dar won’t be no managin’ her,” she said. “Da’s allus de way wid de men folks, allus too hard or too soft; better leav’ her to Mornin ‘n’ ust’n her to things right at de start.”

      There seemed little chance that she would be so “ustened.” Having finished his supper, Tom carried his pipe and newspaper into the kitchen.

      “I’ll sit here awhile,” he said. “The smoke might be too much for her, and the paper rustles so. We’d better let her have her sleep out.”

      But when the pipe was out and the last page of the paper read, he went back to his own room. The small ark stranded in his chimney corner was attractive enough to draw