"Oh, Miss Doane, you're just like us all. We can't pass a mirror without a peep."

Drusilla said: "I wonder if we ever git too old not to want to see ourselves. As long as I can have hats like this one, I won't. Ain't it funny what clothes can do for you. Now with my velvet dress I ain't a bit afraid to go in that big house, in the front door and set down in the parlor, while if I had on my old black dress, I'd feel that I belonged in the kitchen. Yet it's the same Drusilla Doane inside."

Drusilla made many calls that afternoon. At some of the places, being told that the lady was not at home, a card was left.

"Pshaw now," she said to Daphne, "will I have to come again, now she ain't at home?"

"No," said Daphne; "she'll find your cards and know you have called. That's all you have to do."

"Well, that's one good thing"—and Drusilla was relieved to find that the disagreeable duty was so quickly done. "If I'd a knowed that, I'd a sent William to tell me when they was out and then I'd a come."

"Oh, but you'll like your neighbors when you know them. Here—Mrs. Crane is at home, I know"—and Drusilla spent a most miserable half hour sitting on the edge of a hard chair, wishing Daphne would rise as a signal to leave. Tea was served by a maid, and Drusilla held the cup awkwardly, while she ate the little wafer and infinitesimal sandwich which was passed with it.

"Why didn't they have a table?" she asked when they were outside. "I was in mortal fear that I'd spill the tea on my new dress—and I don't eat well with my gloves on."

Two more calls of the same kind were made and as they were turning into another gate, Drusilla leaned forward and said to the chauffeur: "Joseph, go straight ahead." Then, turning to Daphne, Drusilla said: "We're goin' for a ride now; we ain't goin' to spoil this lovely day with no more calls."

Drusilla would not listen to Daphne's remonstrances, and the motor flew along the beautiful drive overlooking the Hudson. Drusilla did not speak for a time, simply enjoying the ride. Then she turned to the girl.

"Daphne, what does subsidize mean."

Daphne frowned for a moment.

"I wonder if I can tell. I know what it means but it is hard to say it. It means to pay a certain sum of money to some one or some thing. For instance, the ships that carry the mails for some governments are subsidized; or if the government wants to aid some project, to enable it to start, it subsidizes it—that is, gives it a certain sum per year like a salary. Have I made myself clear? Father could tell you better than I can."

"I guess I see what it is," Drusilla said.

"Why do you want to know?" queried Daphne.

"Well, I got a little mixed up in what it meant. I got a letter this morning from some man—some poet I guess he is—who said that I should leave my money to subsidize struggling poets, who had a great message to give the world, but who had to work so hard making a livin' that they didn't git no chance to give the message. I'm afraid I got kind of mixed up—I could think of nothin' but etherize. I guess it was the strugglin' that confused my mind, and I been wondering why I could etherize a lot of struggling young poets. But now I understand."

"Well, of all the impertinence—"

"I don't know, Daphne; there's some truth in what he said. He said that nations needed great thoughts as well as they needed great inventions—them's his words not mine—and often rich men subsidized a poor inventor or a poor scientist so's they could have time to make their inventions and not have to worry over their daily bread; so why shouldn't it be done for the poets who would then have time to give great thoughts to the people, thoughts that would inspire them to noble deeds and works. There's a lot of sense in what he says."

"But you would never think of doing such a thing—"

"No, of course not; but I like to hear about it. And I been a studyin' a lot about that young man,—I am sure he was young or he wouldn't have had the courage to write me; it's only the young who have the courage to try."

"I call it nerve," said Daphne scornfully; "plain nerve."

"Yes, perhaps it is. But I was thinkin' about this young man who has got a feelin' inside of him that he could say somethin' that would make the world better, and he tries, then he's got to go to an office or somewhere and perhaps count rolls of cloth, or he may be a newspaper man who has to write stories of murders and divorces and— and—things like that, when beautiful things is just a chokin' him."

She was silent for a moment.

"It's an awful thing to be poor, Daphne—real poor. Yet—" she said musingly, "even when you're real poor you can always find somethin' to give. Like Mis' Sweet. Did I ever tell you about Mis' Sweet? She lived in our village and she was mortal poor all her life. When her husband lived he didn't do no more work than he had to and she had to git along as best she could, and then when he died she lived with her son, who was so mean and stingy that he made her go to bed at dark so's she wouldn't burn kerosene. She was so poor that she never had cookies or cakes to send her neighbors, and it kind o' cut her, because in the country we was always sendin' some little thing we'd been bakin' to each other, because that's about the only kind of presents country women can make to each other, somethin' they make themselves.

"So Mis' Sweet felt kind o' bad that she couldn't make no return. But, as I says, one ain't never too poor but that they kin give something. Now Mis' Sweet and nothin' pretty in her house, and never saw much that was beautiful, but she had beautiful thoughts inside, and she loved the flowers and things that grew around her.

"Mis' Sweet made paper flowers trying to say the beautiful things she felt inside, jest like that poet. She couldn't buy none of the pretty crinkled papers that we see nowadays; she never saw none of those; but she saved all the little pieces of tissue paper, and any scrap of silk, and the neighbors saved 'em for her too, and they saved their broom wire; and no one ever thought of throwin' away an old green window shade—it was sent to Mis' Sweet for her leaves. She twisted the broom wires with any piece of green paper that she could git hold of, and she cut the papers into flowers, the white ones into daisies and the little pieces of silk was colored with dyes that the neighbors give her that they had left over, and she made roses and apple blossoms and begonias and geraniums, and all the flowers that she knowed. If some were peculiar and didn't look like much o' anything she called them jest wild flowers. She made them all into bouquets. And there wasn't a new baby born in the village but that the mother found by her bedside a bouquet of Mis' Sweet's, and no bride went to the altar but she had a little piece o' orange blossom on her that had been lovingly pinned on by Mis' Sweet, and before the lid was closed over our dead—they had slipped in their fingers a little flower from their old neighbor. And do you think that we laughed at her stiff little bouquets? No! We all loved 'em and we understood, 'cause with each leaf made out of our old window shades and from each wire from our wore out brooms, there was a little love mixed in with the coverin'."

She was silent for a few moments; then she added:

"And I think that this young poet will find a way to give something to the world, if he really loves it and wants to give, same as Mis' Sweet did."

They were returning home along the drive.

"We haven't made half the calls that we should," Daphne said. "We must go another day."

Drusilla shook her head decisively.

"No; I won't make no more calls."

"Oh, but, Miss Doane, you must. You must return your calls."

"Oh, but I mustn't, and I won't," said Drusilla, shaking her head obstinately. "I most froze at some of them places, and I won't risk it again. I won't make calls. They can come to me, Miss Thornton, but I won't go back."

"But they won't come to see you if you don't return the calls."

"Well, they can stay at home then—it ain't much loss on either side."

"But what will you do?"

"I'll send William to know when they are out, and he can leave my cards jest as well as I can. I won't go into them rooms and drink tea out of my lap and eat with my gloves on, and talk about things I don't know nothin' about and don't care even if I did. I'm too old to begin such foolishness."

"But what will I tell them when they ask why you don't return their calls?"

"You can tell them anything you want to. I won't go."

Daphne said mischievously: "I'll say you are a very old lady, and feeble, and cannot take the exertion of making calls."

Drusilla sat up very straight and a slight flush appeared on her cheeks.

"You'll say no such thing, Daphne Thornton. You say the truth, that I don't see no sense in it. Old indeed! I'm not so old; and as to being feeble—"

Daphne snuggled her face against the arm near her.

"Oh, you are a dear, Miss Doane. I love to see you get angry. But you say you are old!"

"That's different. I say it with my own meanin', and generally to pet out of doin' somethin' I don't want to do. But I'm growin' younger each minute. Perhaps"—she chuckled softly to herself—"it's my second childhood."

They came to the door, and it was opened by James—stiff, correct, funereal.

"No," almost groaned Drusilla; "there's James. Now I know I'm dead and only waitin' for the buryin'."



CHAPTER V

Drusilla grew more and more to feel that she was a part of her little world, where everything revolved around her and her wishes were law. It was only natural that she gained confidence in herself. She lost her awe of the servants, and even found courage to speak shortly to James, who, she learned from Jeanne, was relegating most of his duties to William, thinking Miss Doane would not know the difference.

But after the excitement of the first few weeks was past she found the time heavy on her hands. She had no duties, she did not read, there was no sewing nor mending for her, and she could not always work in the conservatories among the flowers; consequently she began to long for something with which to occupy her thoughts and, above all, her hands.

One morning when she was wandering aimlessly around the house she went into the pastry room. There she looked in delight at all the shining pans and the bowls arranged in graduated sizes on their shelves.

"My, ain't it nice, and everything so handy!"

She looked around for a minute; then a thought began to take shape in Drusilla's mind. She looked at the chef thoughtfully; then, evidently deciding, she gave her head a little toss and with a light laugh left the room, soon to return with a big gingham apron covering her pretty dress. The chef looked at her inquiringly.

"Cook," Drusilla said, "I'm hungry for some home cookin' and I want to do it myself. I ain't cooked none fer a good many years, and my fingers is jest itchin' to git into the flour. Where's your flour and things to make cake?"

The chef was shocked.

"Mais, Madame."

"Yes, Madame may, and she's goin' to; so show me where the things is." She rolled up her sleeves. "Now you git me that big yellow bowl, and give me the lard. I'm goin' to make doughnuts—fried cakes I used to call 'em, tho' it's more stylish to say doughnuts these days. I don't like them that's bought in the store with sugar sprinkled on top; sugar don't belong on fried cakes. It takes away their crispiness and you might jest as well be eatin' cake."

Drusilla kept the chef busy waiting on her until she had all the articles needed. Then she turned upon him.

"Now, you go away. Go up to your room, or down to James. I don't want you standin' round lookin' as if you was goin' to bust every minute. You got to git used to this. I'm goin' to have a bakin' day once a week, same as I did for forty year."

Drusilla spent a happy morning. The "fried cakes" finished, she decided to make some cookies—the "old-fashioned kind that my mother's sister Jane give me the receipt of; I kind o' want to see if I have lost my hand."

But the hand had not lost its cunning if the great dish of brown, crisp doughnuts, and the cookies and the gingerbread were a test. After they were baked and in a row on the table, she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, with a proud expression on her kindly old face.

"Now if I only had some one to come in and say, 'Drusilla, is them fresh fried cakes?' and I'd laugh and say, 'Yes; do try 'em,' and they'd eat three or four. Or if I only had some neighbors—"

Drusilla stopped suddenly.

"Now, why shouldn't I! I've got neighbors that's all been tryin' to be neighborly to me in their way; why shouldn't I be neighborly in my way? I can't be neighborly jest leavin' a card, or drinkin' tea with my gloves on—Yes, I will! Drusilla'll be neighborly in Drusilla's way."

She was as delighted as a child at the thought. She hurried into the pantry and returned with some plates and napkins. She piled a few of her confections upon each plate, carefully covered it with a napkin, then called William.

"William," she said, "you take that plate o' cookies over to Mis' Gale's, and tell her that I sent 'em, bein' it was my bakin' day. See she gets 'em and they don't stop in the kitchen. And take that plate o' gingerbread to Mis' Cairns; and them fried cakes to Mis' Freeman; and tell 'em all I sent 'em with my love. Tell 'em I made 'em myself."

William looked at her but did not move.

"What you lookin' at me fer? Take 'em as I said. Put 'em in a basket if you can't carry 'em, or have one of the girls help you."

"But, ma'am, but—"

"But what? Ain't you never took cookies to one before?"

"Why—why—no, ma'am. Never in the houses where I've served—"

"Now that'll do, William. Don't begin that. That's what James always says when he specially wants to be disagreeable. If you haven't ever took a neighbor a plate o' cookies or some gingerbread, right hot out of the oven, you've missed a lot. So do as I say!"

"But—ma'am—I'm sure they have all the cakes they need. Mr. Cairns is a—very—very rich man, and they have a cook, a French cook. Why, he has an income of more than a million dollars a year, and—and—"

Drusilla looked at him over her glasses.

"Land o' Goshen, has he? That's a heap o' money; but I'm sure that if he has a French cook like mine, he'll be mighty glad to have an old-fashioned fried cake; so take that plate to him too, and I'll fix another for Mis' Freeman. He ain't never sence he was a boy set his teeth in better fried cakes. Perhaps the cookies won't be so much to his taste; but you tell 'em they're nice fer the children to slip in their apron pockets to eat at recess."

William executed his errand, although with a feeling that the dignity of the place was not being upheld. There was a luncheon party at the Cairns mansion, and when the butler brought in the plate of cookies and the doughnuts and delivered the message, trying his best not to smile, Mrs. Cairns looked at them in dismay.

"What did you say, John?"

"Miss Doane sent them to you with her love. She said that it was her baking day, and that she had made them herself. The cookies are for the children to slip in their apron pockets and eat at recess," recited the butler with an immobile face.

Mrs. Cairns raised the napkins and surveyed the cakes; then she looked at her husband and her guests. They laughed; that is, the guests did, but not Mr. Cairns.

"Take them to the kitchen, John," Mrs. Cairns ordered. "The servants may have them."

"No; bring them here, John," Mr. Cairns said sharply. "You may go and say that Mrs. Cairns thanks Miss Doane very much for her thoughtfulness in remembering her on her baking day, and that she is sure she will enjoy the doughnuts—and the cookies will be given to the children."

The servant left the room, and Mr. Cairns sat very quietly looking at the plates before him. He took up one of the doughnuts, studied it, then finally took a bite of it.

"Hot," he said, "and crispy."

He was quiet a moment, with a far away look in his eye; then, as if noticing the silence of his guests, he said with a quiet laugh:

"It takes me back—back—. Bless her old soul! I understand. And it takes me back—and—well, I'm a boy again and I can see Mother standing over the stove, and I can smell the hot cakes when I come in from school, and hear her say, 'Jimmie, take your hands out of that crock! No, you can't have but one. Well, two, but no more. Now take that plate over to Mis' Fisher and that one to Miss Corbin—'"

He was quiet again for a few moments; then, as if coming back to the world beside him, he said in his usual even tones:

"Shall we go into the library?"

And the guests did not laugh again.

Drusilla was neighborly in other ways besides that of sending cakes and cookies on her baking day. One day she heard that Mrs. Beaumont, who lived in the first house below her, was ill. "She has a bad cold," Miss Lee told her, "and they are afraid it might develop into pneumonia. But, between you and me, she's just bored to death and doesn't have enough to interest her."

As soon as her visitor left, Drusilla went upstairs, and came down with a little package in her hand and an old-fashioned sunbonnet on her head. She went out of the gate and down the road until she came to the great gates that guarded the home of the multi-millionaire who lived there.

She was told at the door that Mrs. Beaumont was not receiving, but she told the man to tell his mistress that she had something special for her and would not detain her but a moment. The man rather unwillingly took her message, and returning in a few moments conducted Drusilla into a luxurious bedroom, where a very beautiful woman was lying upon a chaise lounge, dressed in an elaborate peignoir, her hair covered by a marvelous creation that went by the name of boudoir cap. She languidly gave her hand to Drusilla.

"You want to see me?" she murmured in a low, languid voice. "Won't you please sit down? And excuse my appearance. I am not receiving— but—but—I thought I would see you."

Drusilla sat down.

"Now that's real nice of you to see me. I heard you was sick—had a bad cold; and I thought I'd come in and see if I couldn't help you. I brung some boneset. I nursed a lot when I was younger, and I found that boneset is the best thing in the world fer a cold. Jest make a tea of it and drink it hot. It's kind of bitter, but you can put milk and sugar in it if you want to—though, to my notion, that makes it worse. Then git right into bed and cover up and sweat. It's the best thing in the world fer a cold—jest sweat it out of you. If you should put a hot brick or a hot flatiron at your back and another at your feet, it'd help. By to-morrow you won't know you got a cold."

The woman's face was a study; but the doctor entered at that moment and saved her. She said:

"Dr. Hodman, this is Miss Doane, my nearest neighbor."

Drusilla shook his hand heartily.

"I'm real glad to see you. I've brung Mis' Beaumont some herbs. A little boneset. I told her to make a good strong cup o' tea of it, and drink it hot, then git into bed and cover up warm, and sweat, and by to-morrow she wouldn't know she had a cold."

The doctor looked from Drusilla to Mrs. Beaumont, hardly knowing what to say. This little old lady, with her sunbonnet and her boneset tea, was not the usual visitor he encountered in the homes of his fashionable patients.

"Yes," said Mrs. Beaumont, "and—and—Miss Doane was telling me that a hot brick—what was it you said, Miss Doane?"

"I was a tellin' her that a hot brick or a flatiron at her feet and another at the small of her back would help. It ain't comfortable jest at first, but she can have the hired girl wrap it in a piece o flannel, and after a while it feels real comfortin'. But I must be goin'. I see you're a lookin' at my bunnet, Mis' Beaumont. It don't look much like what you got on your head, but I work a lot in the garden, and if I don't have somethin' on my head my hair gets all frouzy. A hat don't seem to be the right thing to work in the garden with, and if I do wear one the sun burns the back of my neck when I stoop down; so I got me a bunnet, like I used to wear, and it makes me feel real to home. Good-by, good-by, doctor."

She turned to Mrs. Beaumont:

"Now, if the boneset tea don't do you no good, let me know. Perhaps your liver is teched a little and it makes you feel bad all over. I got some camomile leaves that's real good fer that. If you want any, I'll be real glad to bring 'em over."

She was gone.

The doctor looked at his patient and the patient looked at the doctor. Then Mrs. Beaumont put back her head and burst into a gale of laughter, in which the dignified doctor soon joined. They laughed and laughed, the woman wiping her tear-filled eyes. Finally, when she could stop long enough to talk, she said:

"Did you ever hear of anything so funny in all your life—a hot brick—or a hot flatiron"—a peal of laugher—"at my feet—another one at the small of my back—Oh, I shall die, I shall surely die!" And she went off into another paroxysm of laughter.

When the laughter ceased and the doctor returned to his professional manner, asking her how she felt and starting to feel her pulse, she said:

"Doctor, she's cured me. I haven't had a laugh like that for years. It's better than all your medicine. Boneset tea—" and again she was off.

Finally, when she had quieted, the doctor said:

"I don't know but that her boneset tea is as good as anything else. All you need is a little quiet. You seem better than you were yesterday."

"I tell you that I am well! All my system needed was a little shaking up, and Miss Doane has done it for me."

The doctor rose to go.

"I think that I shall take Miss Doane as a partner. Her herbs or her prescriptions seem to have a better effect than my medicines. Shall I come to-morrow?"

"Yes; this may not last. Come to-morrow if you are near, though I am sure I won't need you."

As the doctor's hand was on the door he turned:

"If I were you, Mrs. Beaumont, I'd send for those camomile leaves."

But with all her little acts of neighborliness, and her "baking day" and her attempts to find duties to fill the hours, time began to hang heavily upon the hands of active Drusilla. If she had been of a higher station in life she would have said that she was bored or was suffering from that general complaint of the rich—"enuyee."

Here Providence stepped in. One morning when she was dressing she heard a peculiar little wailing cry. She listened. The cry was repeated. She listened again, but could not locate the sound. Then, thinking she might be mistaken, she continued with her dressing; but again that piercing wail was borne to her ears. She opened her window and then she heard it distinctly—a baby's cry. She listened in amazement. There was no baby on the place except the gardener's, and his cottage was too far from the big house to have his children's wails heard in that place given over to aristocratic quiet. Drusilla tried to see around the comer of the house, but she could not; so she rang for Jeanne.

"Jane, I heard a baby cry. Go and find out where it is," she said.

Jeanne was gone a long time, it seemed to Drusilla; and then she returned, with big frightened eyes, followed by the butler carrying a large basket. He stopped at the door.

"Come in, James. What you standing there for? What you got?"

Just then the wailing cry came from the basket, and Drusilla dropped the brush in her hand.

"For the land's sake, what's in the basket? Come here!"

James gingerly deposited the basket upon a chair.

"It's a baby, ma'am—a live baby."

"Well, upon my soul! Of course it is! You wouldn't expect it to not be alive. Let's see it."

She went over to the basket and looked down at the lively little bundle that seemed to be protesting in its feeble way against the injustice of the world in leaving it at a chance doorstep. Drusilla looked at it admiringly.

"Why, ain't it cunning, the pore little thing! It's done up warm. How'd it get here?"

"I don't know, ma'am. It must 'a' been left early this morning after the gates was opened. I'll ask the gardeners if they saw any one come in."

"Never mind now, James. Here's a letter. It'll tell us all about it. Where are my glasses, Jane?"

Drusilla put on her glasses and read the inscription on the letter.

"Miss Drusilla Doane. Well, they know my name."

She tore open the envelope and read aloud:

"I read in the paper that you have no one and are alone and rich. My baby has no one but me, and I can't get work. Won't you take him? His name is John—that's all."

"JOHN'S MOTHER."

Drusilla pushed the glasses up on her forehead and used a slang expression that almost drew a smile from solemn James.

"Now what do you know about that!"

She looked at James as if he should have an answer, and he said:

"I'm sure, Miss Doane, I don't know anything about it at all."

Drusilla looked down at the baby in the basket, and again at the letter, not knowing what to do; but, the little wail again rising, she reached down to take the baby into her arms, and found it securely pinned into the basket.

"Poor little mother!" she said. "She didn't want you to get cold."

As she took out the safety-pins and lifted the baby into her arms, she dislodged a bottle of milk.

"Why, she thought of everything! She must 'a' loved you, little John, even though she left you on my doorstep."

The baby, a healthy little youngster about eight months old, blinked up at Drusilla in a friendly manner, then clutched her hair. Drusilla laughed, as she drew her head away.

"That's the first thing all babies make for, my hair. Bless his little heart, he's gettin' familiar already."

James interrupted.

"What'll I do with it, Miss Doane?"

Drusilla looked up from the baby.

"Do with what? The basket? Take it away."

"No, ma'am; I meant it"—pointing to the baby.

"James, it is not an it. It's a he. But you're right, James; what'll we do with it?" And she looked down at the little body in her arms.

"Why—why—" stammered James, who plainly showed that disposing of babies left by chance at doorsteps was entirely out of the usual line of a well trained butler's duties, "I don't know, ma'am. It never happened before where I've served." Here he had an inspiration and his face cleared. "Perhaps we'd better send for Mr. Thornton."

Drusilla looked up at him in a relieved way.

"That's the first glimmer of sense you've ever showed, James; though what he knows about babies I don't see. I'm sure he never was one himself. Now I'll set down—this baby's heavy—and you go and telephone."

"What'll I tell him, ma'am?"

"Tell him? Why, tell him we've got a baby unexpected and we don't know what to do with it."

James almost smiled again.

"I'll break the news to him careful, ma'am," he said.

When he was gone Drusilla scrutinized the baby's hood and coat.

"Jane," she said, "his clothes is pretty—-his mother must 'a' made 'em; and his socks is knit, not bought ones."

She examined each article of his clothing as carefully as would a mother inspecting her firstborn's wardrobe.

"He's dressed real nice.... Did you get him?" as James entered the room. "What did he say?"

"I did not speak to him, Miss Doane, but to Miss Daphne. She acted rather—well—rather excited, and said she would be over immediately with her father."

"We'll wait in patience, I suppose. I'll lay this young man down. My arms must be a gettin' old because I feel him."

She laid the baby on the couch and he protested with legs and arms and voice against being again laid upon his back. Drusilla took him up and he was happy again.

"Well," laughed Drusilla, "I guess I've found somethin' to do with my hands."

The baby stared at Drusilla for a few moments; then his wails commenced again. Drusilla trotted him, but that did not stop his cries.

"Perhaps he is hungry, Miss Doane," Jeanne suggested.

"Give me that bottle."

Drusilla felt the bottle and found it cold.

"It's cold, James. Go warm some milk and scald the bottle."

James went away, his head held high, disapproval expressed in every line of his back. Within a few moments a motor was heard at the door and Daphne's young voice was calling:

"Can we come in, Miss Doane? Where is the baby?"

Daphne entered, interested and excited, followed by her father, stiff, erect, the correct lawyer troubled by unnecessary and petty affairs of the women world.

Daphne came to the baby, who stopped his wails long enough to stare at the new visitor with round, wondering eyes.

"Oh, isn't he a dear! How did you find him?"

Drusilla handed her the letter. "Read that, and then you'll know as much as me."

Daphne read the note out loud.

"Isn't it romantic, Father!" she exclaimed. "Just like you read about in books. Oh, look at James with the bottle!"

James looked neither to the right nor to the left but handed the bottle to Drusilla. She felt it to test its warmth and gave it to the squirming baby, who settled down into the hollow of her arm with a little gurgle of content. The four stood around the baby and watched it for a few moments in silence. Soon its lids began to droop and it was off to slumberland.

"What are you going to do with it, Miss Doane?" whispered Daphne.

"I'm sure I don't know. That's why I sent for your father."

"It's clearly a case for the police," Mr. Thornton said dryly. "I will telephone them."

Drusilla looked at him inquiringly.

"What did you say? Telephone the police? Why?"

"I will ask them to call and take the child in charge."

"Why, what's the baby done?"

"Nothing, of course; but they will understand how to dispose of it."

"What'll they do with it?"

"They will get into connection with the proper authorities, and if the mother cannot be found, they will have the child committed to some institution."

"Some institution. What kind of an institution?"

"An orphan asylum—a home for waifs of this kind."

Drusilla caught the word "home" and she sat up so suddenly that the bottle fell to the floor and the blue eyes opened and looked into Drusilla's face appealingly and the little wail arose again. Drusilla bent over and picked up the bottle, and when she arose her eyes were hard and two bright spots colored her wrinkled cheeks.

"You said 'home.' What do you mean? I don't like the word."

Mr. Thornton was plainly irritated.

"A home for foundlings, where the proper care will be given it."

"Yes, but how?" queried Drusilla. "What kind of care?"

Daphne interrupted her father, who was plainly trying to find words to explain the exact meaning of an orphan asylum.

"Oh, Father, that's horrid. It'll be put in with hundreds of other babies, all dressed alike, and all brought up on rules and bells and things—"

"I know now what your father means—an orphan asylum. Just the same thing as an old ladies' home, only backwards. No, I lived in one o' them and I know what it is and," she settled back in her chair, "my baby ain't goin' there."

"But," objected Mr. Thornton, looking helplessly at the obstinate face before him, "that is the only possible way to dispose of him."

"But think of his poor mother, how she'd feel if she read in the paper that he'd been put in a home. She could 'a' done that herself."

"She should have thought of that before leaving him," Mr. Thornton said dryly. "She should not have deserted the child, and does not deserve any consideration."

"Well, we all do things we oughtn't to do. Even you do, 'cause I can see, lookin' closely at you, that you oughtn't to drink so much coffee, but you do; and the mother hadn't ought to have had the baby in the first place, which she did, and she oughtn't 'a' left it on my stoop, but it's done. Now can't you think of something else to do with it except send it to a home? Ugh, that word makes a pizen in my blood!"

Mr. Thornton clearly was exasperated that his very sensible advice was not acted upon immediately.

"I have told you the only thing to do, and we are wasting time. I must go into the city. James, telephone the police."

Drusilla sat up very erect.

"James, you'll do nothing of the kind! I've decided. I'll take the baby."

"What!" said Mr. Thornton, his exasperated look changing to one of consternation. "What!" said Daphne in delight. "Quoi!" said Jeanne. James did not speak, but he stopped on his way to the telephone and expressed his astonishment as well as a well trained servant may express astonishment at the actions of an employer.

Drusilla settled back in the chair and rocked back and forth with the sleeping baby in her arms, showing that she was enjoying the little explosive she had dropped in the midst of her family circle. There was silence for a few moments; then Mr. Thornton cleared his throat.

"I really don't believe I understood you, Miss Doane," he said.

Drusilla looked up at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I said in plain English that I'd take the baby."

Mr. Thornton looked at her, evidently at a loss for words to express his disapproval. Drusilla watched him, waiting for him to speak; and then, finding that he was silent, she said.

"Now you take that chair, and set down in front of me. Jane, go away. James, go downstairs. Now, Mr. Thornton, fix yourself real comfortable and we'll talk."

"But Miss Doane—"

"Now don't but me, Mr. Thornton, 'cause I'm goin' to talk. I ain't used my voice much sence I been here, and it's gettin' tired o' doin' nothin', jest like I am. Now I've done everything you told me to. I've made visits I didn't like, I've talked with women who come here who didn't like me, and I've tried hard to live up to this house and be a lady and do nothin', and have nothin' to look after and no one to do for and worry about, and nothin' to think of; and I'm tired of it. I've done somethin' all my life, and took care of some one. I nussed my mother for most forty years, then I took care of the sick in all our county, and I looked after the old ladies in the home who wasn't able to look after themselves and now I can't jest set. I'm too old to learn new ways, and I got to have something or some one to do for, and the good Lord knowed I was gettin' restless and sent this here baby. Now—no, wait a minute—I ain't through yet," as Mr. Thornton tried to interrupt her. "I'm goin' to have my say, then your turn'll come, though it won't do you much good, as my mind is made up, and when a woman's mind is made up it's jest as foolish to try to change it as it is to try to set a hen before she begins to cluck."

She stopped a moment and looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms.

"I ain't a-thinkin' of myself alone and jest how good it'll be for me, but I'm a-thinkin' of the baby and I want to give him a chance like other babies."

"But," said Mr. Thornton, "it's quite impossible! A home for such as he is the proper place for him."

"Don't say that word home to me. Mr. Thornton, I hate the word. I've et charity bread and it's bitter, and charity milk'd be the same."

Mr. Thornton threw out his hands with an exasperated gesture.

"But it is impossible, I tell you, quite impossible!"

"Why impossible?" asked Drusilla. "Why, ain't the house big enough?"

"But my late client, Mr. Elias Doane—"

"Have you forgot the letter he wrote me: 'Spend the money your own way, Drusilla.'"

"But he certainly did not mean—"

"How do you know what he meant? He said spend it, and I ain't spent nothin' yet except on some foolish clothes. First thing I know I might die, then it wouldn't be spent, and I know I'd pass my days worryin' St. Peter to find out what had become of it."

Mr. Thornton threw up his hands again.

"Well, I don't know what to say more than I have said," he declared. "Have you decided on its disposition?"

Drusilla, seeing that the lawyer was surrendering, said quite meekly:

"I ain't figured out what is to be done jest now—"

Here Daphne came to her rescue.

"Why don't you give him to the gardener's wife until you find out what to do?"

Drusilla reached over and patted Daphne's hand.

"Daphne, there's some sense under them curls. Your father ought to take you in business with him. That's what we'll do. She has four already, but there's always room in a house where there's babies for one more. Send for her."

"Should it not be medically examined before being placed with other children?" Mr. Thornton suggested.

"Medically examined, stuff and nonsense! Why?"

"A child left in the manner in which this infant was left may come from extremely unsanitary surroundings, and may carry disease with it. It is more than probable."

"Disease nothin'!" said Drusilla, looking down at the baby. "I never saw a healthier child."

At the word medical Daphne rose and went to a part of the room where she could be seen by Drusilla and not by her father, and when Drusilla looked up from inspecting the baby she caught sight of Daphne, who seemed to be staring at her fixedly with a meaning in her eye.

Mr. Thornton, still intent upon the one subject where he saw a chance of having his advice acted upon, and consequently of retaining at least a semblance of authority, said: "I think a doctor should be sent for and the child medically examined."

Drusilla commenced: "It's nonsense. There ain't—" but here she again caught Daphne's eye and saw a slight movement of the head which seemed to mean, "Say yes." Drusilla looked at her a moment uncomprehendingly; then, the nod being repeated more vigorously, she said:

"Well—well—yes, if you believe it should be done, though for the life of me I don't see no sense in it. Who'll I send for?"

"I would suggest Dr. Rathman. He is—"

"Oh, Father!" interrupted Daphne. "He is so old and slow. He'd never get here. Why don't you ask Dr. Eaton? He lives near here."

Mr. Thornton pursed up his lips.

"He is far too young. He has not the experience of Dr. Rathman."

"But, Father, the baby isn't dying."

Drusilla's shrewd old eyes looked keenly at Daphne's flushed face, and she laughed.

"I think Daphne is right. A young doctor's better. I don't think old doctors have a hand with babies."

"But Dr. Eaton is very young," remonstrated Mr. Thornton.

"The younger the better, then perhaps he ain't forgot how the stomach-ache feels himself. You telephone him, Daphne."

"No," said Daphne, a little embarrassed. "I think James had better do that. Oh, here's Mrs. Donald."

The baby was given into the motherly arms of Mrs. Donald; and Mr. Thornton drew on his gloves and said very coldly, feeling that he had lost ground on every point, "Come, Daphne; we will go. When you have decided upon the final disposition of the child, you may, as always, command my services, Miss Doane. Come, Daphne."

"But, Father, I'll stay a while with Miss Doane."

"No, Daphne; you will go with me. Your mother needs you."

Daphne cast an imploring glance at Drusilla.

"Can't Daphne stay a while? I'd like to talk with her," Drusilla said.

"No," said her father, with a finality in his tone that caused Daphne to go with him meekly, if unwillingly; "Daphne must return with me."

Drusilla looked at the set face a moment, and then at the rebellious face of Daphne, and her own face broke into the tiny wrinkles that accompanied her smiles.

"Oh, I see! Well, never mind, child. There are lots of other days and this baby may need the services of a doctor often." And she accompanied them to the hall with a little light of understanding in her eyes as she watched Daphne's pouting face disappear in the motor.

The young doctor came. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young athlete, not yet thirty, and his merry blue eyes and his cheery voice won Drusilla at once. They went to the gardener's cottage and inspected the baby. The doctor patted it and tickled it and tossed it in his arms until it was all gurgles of delight.

"He's as sound as a dollar, Miss Doane," he said. "Couldn't be in better condition. He could run a Marathon this minute if his legs were long enough."

Drusilla watched the proceedings with twinkling eyes.

"Well, that's a new way to medically examine an ailin' child," she commented; "but it seems to work."

"Ailing! He isn't ailing, Miss Doane. If he keeps this fit Mrs. Donald won't have to send for me often."

"That's what I told Mr. Thornton; but he said I must have you."

Dr. Eaton stopped tossing the baby and looked at Miss Doane in astonishment.

"Are you telling me that Mr. Thornton asked you to send for me?"

"Well," and Drusilla laughed, "he didn't exactly mention your name, but he said I should have a doctor for the baby."

"I thought Mr. Thornton wasn't recommending me. Didn't he mention Dr. Rathman?"

"Perhaps he did, but Miss Daphne seemed to feel that he was too old to answer a hurry call like this, so we sort of compromised, at least Daphne and me did, on you."

There was a slight flush on the young man's face that did not miss the keen eyes of Drusilla.

"Oh," he said, "I see." And then, in an attempt to change the subject: "Is this a new baby of Donald's? I haven't seen him around here before."

"No," said Drusilla; "this is my baby."

Dr. Eaton looked at her, and then laughed with her.

"Now what should I say, Miss Doane—many happy returns of the day, or—"

"You jest say, Dr. Eaton, 'This is a fine baby.' But come up to the house and have breakfast with me. I clean forgot it. And we'll talk it all over."

They went slowly up the graveled walk to the breakfast-room, and over the coffee and the cakes Drusilla explained the unexpected arrival of the baby.

"Now you know as much about it as I do," she ended; "and I suppose you'll say with Mr. Thornton that I'm a foolish old woman to say I'll take it. But it won't do you no good. I'm goin' to have my way, and I've found out in the last few weeks that I can get it, and I'm afraid it's spoilin' me. I'm goin' to keep the baby."

The doctor leaned back in his chair. "May I light a cigarette? Thanks. That breakfast was corking. Now, about the baby. I think you are right. Why shouldn't you keep the baby?"

"That's what I said—why shouldn't I?"

"No reason in the world why you shouldn't."

"I like you, Dr. Eaton. I like you more and more; and I see you understand how I feel. Here I am, an old woman all alone in this big house, with nothin' to do, and a lot of pesky servants that stand around and don't earn their salt, jest a-waitin' on me. I've always wanted babies, but never had a chance to have 'em, and I've jest spent my heart lovin' other people's, and seein' 'em in other people's arms and mine empty. Now I git a chance to have a baby most my own and I ain't goin' to lose it."

The doctor looked at her face for a few moments in silence, and beneath the lines he saw the loneliness of the heart-hungry little old woman and he understood.

"You are perfectly right, Miss Doane. There's nothing like a baby in all the world. It'll give you something to do and think about and it'll bring sunshine into the house. I envy you. Every time I go down to the 'home' where I look after the health of some kiddies, I wish I could bundle every one of them up and take them to a real home with me."

"That's what Mr. Thornton wanted me to do with it—put it in a home. I've lived in a home, Dr. Eaton, and though I wasn't treated bad and had all the comforts of four walls and enough to eat, such as it was, it ain't a place to die in, and it sure ain't a place to grow up in."

"You're right again, Miss Doane. The kiddies up at our place get a bed and clothes and plenty of food; but there's something they don't get and that something is going to count in their life. They grow up without love, and are turned out on the world just little machines that have been taught that the world goes round at the tap of a bell. They've missed something that they can never get, and if they win out in life it's because they've got something pretty big inside of them which they've had to fight for all by themselves. And any fight is hard when it is made alone without a little tenderness to help over the hard places. Why, when I see the girls all in checked aprons, hair braided in two braids tied with a blue cord, all the boys in blue with hats just exactly alike with blue bands on them—all going to dinner at a regular time—all eating oatmeal out of a blue bowl, all just part of a thing that turns babies into a lot of little jelly-molds like a hundred other little jelly-molds—well, Miss Doane, it hurts something way deep inside of me. Keep the baby, Miss Doane, for your own sake and for the baby's."

"I'm glad you see it my way. I'd made up my mind already, but you make it easier for me. I wonder that I'll do with it at first?"

"Why don't you let the gardener's wife keep it until you can find out what you really want to do. You can pay her and she'll be glad to earn the extra money. It won't cost much."

"I ain't thinkin' about the cost. I'm jest glad to get a chance to spend some money. Mr. Thornton come to me the other day and talked most an hour about the investment of my income, and when I got it through my head what he meant, I learnt that he has to hunt up ways to put out the money that's comin' to me all the time, so's it'll make more money. Now I don't want to invest my income, or save it. I want to spend it, and I don't see no better way than taking babies."

She laughed softly.

"I wouldn't mind a few more, Dr. Eaton, jest to keep that one company. But I guess I'll git along. Most people commence with one at a time."

"Do you want more babies, Miss Doane?" asked Dr. Eaton, leaning forward interestedly. "I can get you as many as you want. I run across them every day—babies that lose their mothers in the hospitals, babies that are deserted. Why, babies that need homes are as thick as fleas, in New York."

Drusilla put up her hand.

"Now, I don't mean I want 'em all at once, Dr. Eaton. We won't be what you might call impulsive, 'cause if there's as many as you say, they can wait until I know about 'em. I'd rather like to pick and choose my family. Now I'll go upstairs and think a little about this one, and what we're goin' to do with him. It's all been rather sudden, you know, and I ain't used to so much excitement—though I think it is good fer me. I think it's going to keep me from dyin' of dry rot, which I've always been afeard of. I want to wear out, not rust out, like so many old women do."

Dr. Eaton rose to go and Miss Drusilla looked up at him as he stood straight and strong before her. She smiled, with the merry little wrinkles playing around the corners of her mouth.

"I believe I'm rather ailin' myself, and will need to have a family doctor. You might look in every once in a while and see if my health is good."

The doctor laughed as he said: "Well, I hope you won't ever need me professionally, but I'd like nothing better than to drop in and have a chat with you. Think over the baby question, Miss Doane. You'll find it the greatest question in the world to keep you up and coming. Good-by. Thank you for sending for me. Good-by."

Drusilla watched him as he swung with his long stride down the drive and out of the gate, and then she chuckled to herself.

"I can see now why Daphne is interested in the medical profession. I don't blame her; if I was fifty years younger, I'd be myself."



CHAPTER VI

One morning when Drusilla was sitting in the small library reading the morning paper her eyes caught the words: "Funeral of General Fairmont." She read of his death in the little town in the Middle West, attended by a few of the officers of his regiment and his lifelong friend, John Brierly.

Drusilla dropped the paper with an exclamation.

"John! And he's alive!"

She spent the next few hours with folded hands, her mind far in the past that was recalled by seeing the name of John Brierly. She lived over again those girlhood years when the world with John in it seemed the most beautiful place on earth. She thought of her mother's failing health, her helplessness, her dependence. She could almost hear her cry, "Don't leave me, Drusilla, don't leave me!" when John went to her and asked that they might marry and meet life's battles together. Drusilla never for a moment blamed her mother for her selfishness in demanding all and giving nothing; and she never would admit, even to herself, that her mother's obstinacy in refusing either to go with John and Drusilla or to give her consent that they live with her, had ruined her life. Those years of bitterness were past, and now she remembered only the happy days when she and John were together and life seemed just one flowery path on which they walked together.

At last she rose and rang for the butler and asked him to telephone Mr. Thornton. She could never get used to the telephone herself. She wanted Mr. Thornton to come to her on his way home.

She passed the day impatiently awaiting his arrival. She could not occupy herself with the flowers, nor could the baby at the gardener's cottage evoke any enthusiasm, although she carefully looked over the clothing of one of the younger Donalds that kindly Mrs. Donald had contributed for the baby's use.

At last the lawyer arrived. Drusilla hardly allowed him to be seated before she broached the subject.

"Mr. Thornton, I want you to do me a great favor. I just read in the paper that an—an old friend of mine that I thought dead long ago, is living in a little town in southern Ohio. I want to know how he is getting along, what he is doing, how he is living. I want you to send some one out there and find out all about it. I want to know if he's comfortable off, and happy. He may be poor, and he may be lonely. Find out all about him, and let me know."

The lawyer started to say something.

"No, don't say a word, and don't talk about writin' out. That ain't what I want. I want to know, and letters won't tell me nothing. Do this for me—send some one; 'cause if you don't I'll start myself to-morrow. I'm goin' to know how life's usin' John Brierly."

She leaned over and touched the lawyer's hand.

"Don't always be agin me, Mr. Thornton. I got my heart in this. John Brierly meant all the world to me once, and although I'm old now I ain't forgot. There's some things, you know, we don't forget."

Mr. Thornton looked at the flushed old face before him, and a softness came into his voice that surprised even himself.

"I'll do it at once, Miss Doane. I'm always glad to be of any service to you."

"I'm glad to hear you say it; though sometimes you have to be backed into the shafts. But you will send at once—to-morrow?"

"Yes, I'll—let me see—I'll send Mr. Burns."

"Send a bright young man, some one that'll nose around and find out everything. John's proud, and he may be poor, and I want to know jest how he's fixed; and I don't want him to feel that any one's inquiring into his affairs, 'cause then he'd shut up like a clam and I couldn't find out nothin'. Send some one with sense. Hadn't you better go yourself?"

Mr. Thornton laughed.

"That's the first compliment you ever gave me, Miss Doane; but I don't think it is necessary that I go myself. I have a very clever young man in the office who will do better than I would."

"Well, have him go at once. Can't he start to-night?"

"I don't think that is necessary either. He'd better wait until I give him all the details. But I'll start him off the first thing in the morning. Now you rest happy, and in a few days you'll know all about it."

Drusilla passed the days impatiently waiting for the return of the man from Ohio. Finally he arrived and Mr. Thornton brought him to see her.

Drusilla sat in her high-backed chair.

"Well, begin!" she said impatiently. "I'm nigh as curious as a girl."

The young clerk drew a bundle of papers from his pocket.

"I found out as much as I could regarding the present circumstances of John Brierly. He is—"

"What does he look like?" interrupted Drusilla. "I ain't seen him for mor'n forty years. Is he old lookin'? Is he sick?"

The young man smiled at her impatience.

"I should call him a singularly well preserved man for his years."

"That sounds as if he was apple-sass, or somethin' to eat. What does he look like? Is he stoop-shoulderd?"

"Not at all. He is a tall, spare man, with white hair and a gray Vandyke beard."

"What's a Vandyke beard? You mean whiskers?"

"Yes; whiskers trimmed to a point—rather aristocratic looking."

"John always was a gentleman and looked it. Is he well lookin'?"

"Yes, he was in the best of health."

"Is he—is he—married?"

"No; he never married."

Drusilla was quiet for a moment, her eyes seeing beyond the men to the lover who had remained true to her throughout the years.

"Does he live alone?"

"He has two rooms in the home of some people with whom he has lived for a great many years."

"Is he in business?"

"No; he was in business until the panic of 1893, when he lost his business."

"What does he live on? Is he poor?"

"He saved a little out of the wreck of his business and lives on that."

"How much has he?"

"I think he has about five hundred dollars a year; just enough to keep him modestly in that little town."

"Does he seem happy? Did you talk with him?"

"Yes; I visited with him all of one afternoon. He does not seem unhappy, but he is a lonely old man. All of his friends are gone and he leads a lonely life."

"What does he do?"

"He has his books."

"Yes; John always loved books. They used to say that if he'd attend to business more and books less, he'd git along better."

The clerk laughed.

"I'm afraid that's what they say out there, too. He is not a practical man, and he seems to have paid very little attention to the making of money, or—what is more—to the keeping of it after he had made it."

Drusilla smiled.

"That's just like John," she said softly. "Set him down somewhere with a book and he'd forgit that there was other things he ought to be doin' instead of readin'. He worked in Silas Graham's grocery store when he was a boy, and Silas had to keep pryin' him out from behind the barrels to wait on customers. Silas said when he let him go that John's business was clerkin' in a book store and not a grocery store. Well, well! John's just the same, I guess. He'd ought to had some one with common sense to keep him goin'."

"Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"No—" said Drusilla hesitatingly. "I guess that's all I need to know."

She was quiet for a few moments. Then:

"Does he seem strong?"

"Yes; strong and well."

"D'ye suppose he could travel by himself?"

"Certainly; he seems perfectly able to travel by himself."

"Then I guess I'll write him a letter. That's all, and I thank you very much, young man. I suppose you have a lot more on them papers, but I know all I want to. Good day."

A few days after Drusilla's interview with the clerk, John Brierly received a letter in the handwriting that, although a little feeble, was still familiar to him. He took it home from the post-office and did not break the seal until he was in his sitting-room. Then he read it.

DEAR JOHN:

I jest heard where you are and how you are. You are alone and I'm alone. We are both two old ships that have sailed the seas alone and now we're nearing port. Why can't we make the rest of the voyage together? I have a home a great deal too big for one lone woman, and you have no home at all. Years ago your home would have been mine if you could a give it to me, and now I want to share mine with you. I'm not proposing to you, John; we're too old to think of such things, but I do want to die with my hand in some one's who cares for me and who I care for. You're the only one in all the world that's left from out my past, and I want you near me. Won't you come and see me? Then we can talk it over, and if you don't like it here you can go back. Come to me, John. Let me hear by the next mail that you're a coming.

DRUSILLA.

P. S. If you don't come to me, I'll come to you. This is a threat, John. You see if I am seventy years old, I'm still your wilful Drusilla.

Drusilla doubtless would have passed the next few days anxiously awaiting an answer to her letter if an unforeseen occurrence had not driven all thoughts of it from her head. Some one had told the newspapers about the baby left on her doorstep, and that she had refused to send it to the police, and one morning great headlines stared her in the face: DRUSILLA DOANE A TRUE PHILANTHROPIST. Again she saw her picture and the picture of the house in Brookvale, and read:

I'll send no baby to a home. I've eaten charity bread and it was bitter and charity milk would be the same.

That started for Drusilla a strenuous existence for a few days. The next morning a baby—a weak, sickly little thing—was found beside the locked gates, with a note pinned to its tiny jacket. "Won't you please take my baby too?" Drusilla took it into her motherly arms, looked with pitying eyes into its little white pinched face, and sent it to the butler's wife until she could determine what to do with it. The next morning there were two babies waiting; and that night at dinner the butler was called to the door by a ring, and when he opened it, he found a little boy about two years of age standing there with a note in his hand. The grounds were searched for the person who had brought the baby and left it standing there, but no one was found—and he, too, was added to the butler's growing family. In the next week eleven children were brought to the house in aristocratic Brookvale, and Drusilla was frightened at the inundation of young that she had brought upon herself. They were of all kinds and all descriptions. There were John and Hans and Gretchen, and Frieda and Mina and Guiseppi, Rachel, Polvana, Francois; even a little Greek was among the collection. Their names were pinned to their clothing, along with letters—some pitiful and some impertinent, but all asking for a home for the abandoned child. Drusilla was dismayed and sent for the young doctor, as Mr. Thornton's only word was the police and a "home," to both of which Drusilla shook her old gray head vigorously. But she saw that she could not parcel the children out indefinitely among the servants, and consequently Dr. Eaton was asked to come and help her decide what should be done.

When he came in, his eyes twinkled mischievously at Drusilla.

"I hear you have numerous additions to the family," he said.

"Young man," Drusilla said, "you set right there and tell me what to do. You got me in all this trouble. Now you get me out of it."

The doctor stopped in amazement.

"I got you in this trouble? How did I get you in this trouble?"

"Now, don't you look that surprised way at me," said Drusilla severely. "Didn't you tell me all about orphan asylums and babies having to be all dressed in the same way, and have all their hair tied with blue cord, and eat porridge out of a blue bowl, and set down and stand up and go to bed at the ringin' of a bell. Didn't you tell me that?"

"Certainly; I said a few things like that, but—"

"And didn't you make my foolish old eyes jest fill up at the thought of any baby I'd ever held in my arms goin' to a place like that and bein' turned into a little jelly-mold—them's your words, a little jelly-mold—"

"Well—I did mention jelly-molds, but still—"

"And didn't you make me feel so bad that I couldn't let Mr. Thornton give that blessed little John in charge and be sent to a home?"

"Why—why—you had already decided; but still—"

"That's the third time you've said, 'but still,' and I don't see as it helps me any now."

"What'll I say, Miss Doane?"

"You jest help me out of this fix I'm in. I got eleven babies on my hands, and what am I goin' to do with 'em?"

"Well, it is a question, isn't it?"

"No, it ain't a question; it's a whole book of questions, and the answers ain't found. I wash my hands of it all. You got me in; now you get me out."

And Drusilla sat back in her chair.

"Why—why—you put rather a responsibility on me. What does Mr. Thornton say?"

"Huh!" Drusilla nearly snorted, if the sound she emitted could have been called a snort. "He says jest what you'd suppose he'd say. Send for the police and put them where they belong."

"I presume he is right," said Dr. Eaton a little sadly. "I don't see what else you can do with them; unless—"

"Unless what? If that's all you can say, I needn't have sent for you. I've heard that with every baby that's come. Now I want somethin' different. What's your 'unless' mean?"

"Unless you keep them, Miss Doane."

"How'm I goin' to keep eleven babies and they comin' faster every day?"

"I think you had better head off the rest."

"How can I do that? They jest come and there ain't no one to give 'em to."

"We will put a policeman on guard to watch the gates, and arrest the next one who leaves a bundle or a basket."

"I hate to arrest any one, but—perhaps it's the only thing to do. But that don't help none with the ones I got now. And, Dr. Eaton, they're the cunningest lot of babies! I go round every night to see 'em undressed. I've took more exercise trotting to the different houses where I've put 'em just to look at 'em go to bed—well, I jest can't send 'em to a home."

"Why should you? Now let's talk sensibly, Miss Doane. What are your plans for your own life?"

"What do you mean?"

"What are you going to do with yourself? How occupy yourself?"

"I don't occupy myself. I'm jest settin' around waitin' to die; and, between you and me and the gate-post, Dr. Eaton, I'm not used to jest waitin'. I'm used to doin' somethin' if I am an old woman."

"That's just it—you are used to doing something. Now here's something that you can do that's worth while. There's a whole lot of babies in the world that need a home, and why can't you take your share of them and give them a chance in life?"

"How can I give them a chance?"

"Why, Miss Doane, who could give them a better chance? You have money—"

"Yes—heaps of it; and I set wonderin' what to do with it. I want to spend it and I don't know how."

"How can you spend it better than by taking care of all these babies, by seeing that they'll have love and care instead of being brought up by chance or charity, which is bound to kill every decent instinct a child may be born with."

Here Dr. Eaton got up and began walking around the room. His eyes grew bright, his voice earnest and thrilling to the old woman who watched him as he walked up and down.

"Miss Doane, you have a wonderful chance to do something great. I envy you for the chance. Just think of being able to take these little waifs and provide a place for them to grow up into the men and women that it was intended they should be! Whenever I go down to the orphan asylum and see all the little tads herded around in bunches by paid nurses, and no one really caring for them, no one tucking them up at night, no one singing them little songs, no one hearing their evening prayers, it seems to me that I must take them all away with me. It seems that we are all wrong in a world where a Great Master whose teaching we are supposed to follow said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me,' when we allow them to be turned into little machines, unloved and uncared for. Oh, Miss Doane, you've got a great chance. Take it!"

Drusilla frankly wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Dr. Eaton, you almost make me cry. But where'll I put 'em?"

"How big is this house? You don't use it all, do you?"

"Use it all! Well, I should say not. I feel like a pea in a tin can shakin' around loose. Young man, there's twelve empty bedrooms in this place and I don't know how many other rooms that's goin' to waste."

"There you are! Why not fill them up? Of what use are they lying empty?"

"That's what I often think, and I wonder why one old woman's got so many rooms when there's lots of people ain't got no place to go. It don't seem jest right."

"Of course it isn't right. You've too much; a great many have nothing. Now even up."

"Who'll I git to take care of 'em?"

"We'll have to figure that out."

"We'll have to figure it out mighty sudden. I got them young ones pretty well passeled out among the hired help, and they ain't enjyin' them so much as I am. First thing I know the hull cahoots of 'em'll leave, though speakin' for a few of 'em it wouldn't cause me to go to an early grave to be shet of some of 'em."

"I must be off. I'll think it over and let you know what I've figured out for you."

"Well, hurry up about it. It's a lot to think of. I never thought I'd take to raisin' children at my time of life; but you never can tell what you'll end as. I'm pretty old to begin, I'm afraid."

"Come now, Miss Doane; don't get cold feet. One is never too old to try something. If it doesn't work, you can always send them to the police that Mr. Thornton tells you about. They're always there; so are the homes."

"Yes; that's so. And they wouldn't be no worse off'n when they come. Well—you run along and start somethin'."

"Yes, we'll start something, Miss Doane."

Dr. Eaton went away, and the next morning he got an excited telephone call from Drusilla herself, which showed that it was of the utmost importance to her and even overcame her dislike of talking into a "box," as she called it.

"Come right over, Dr. Eaton; come right over at once," she said. "I've got another baby and they've caught the mother."

Dr. Eaton lost no time in coming to Drusilla, and he found a very excited little woman, with her hat and gloves on, waiting for him.

"Don't come in; I'll tell you on the way. I've got the car and my bunnet's on, so we'll go along."

Drusilla did not stop to explain but stepped into the car, and gave directions to the chauffeur.

Dr. Eaton laughed.

"Why all this hurry, Miss Doane? Is something afire?"

"Yes; I'm afire, and I'm mad! They put a officer of some kind at the gate last night, and this morning he caught a woman leavin' a baby. An' how do you suppose he caught her? The man was hid and couldn't catch the woman when the baby was left, and he waited and pinched the baby and made it cry, and then the poor little mother who was waitin' somewhere to see her baby took in, come to see what was the matter, and they took her. I can jest see it all—the poor little mother in hidin', waitin' to see her baby took in the house, and, hearin' it cry, her mother heart drew it back to comfort it, and she was caught. Mr. Thornton tells me she was taken to court, and that's where we're a-goin' this minute. I want to see that mother, and find out why she left the baby."

When they arrived at the court, Dr. Eaton and Drusilla found a seat up near the front. They were wedged in between wives with anxious faces wondering if their husbands would be taken away from them, or watching them pay in fines the dollars that were so badly needed in the home. They were all there, those hangers-on of misery—the policemen, the plain clothes men, the probation officers, the cheap lawyers, the reporters. Here and there was an artist or a writer looking for "copy," or some woman from Fifth Avenue trying to get a new sensation from the troubles of her less fortunate sisters. Over it all there was a silence that was heavy and dead. A silence born of fear—the fear of the law.

Several cases were called before the case for which Drusilla waited, and then a young girl not more than eighteen years old rose and stood before the Judge with a baby in her arms. At first she was so frightened that she could not answer the questions; but the Judge, a kindly man, waited for her to become more calm, and then, in a quiet voice, he began to question her.

"Now do not be frightened; we will not hurt you. Just tell me why you left the baby."

The scared voice spoke so low that her words could scarcely be heard.

"I didn't know it was wrong."

"If you didn't know it was wrong, why did you hide?"

"I—I—wanted to see that nothin' happened to her. I kind of—kind of—wanted to see her as long as I could. She's my baby—and—and—I wouldn't see her again—and I just kind of waited round—" Here the girl started to cry. "I didn't know it was wrong. There was nothing else to do. I—I—"

"You were willing to give her away, yet you cared enough to go to her when she cried. I don't understand it."

"I don't know, but she cried and I thought somethin' might be hurtin' her or she wasn't covered up warm enough—and I wanted to touch her again—and—and—"

"But if you feel that way, how could you leave her?"

"What was I to do with her? I couldn't take her back home. I come from the country and I couldn't go back with a baby. No one would speak to me, and it would hurt Mother so. I jest couldn't. She's only two weeks old, and you know when you leave the hospital with a baby two weeks old in your arms, and you can't go home and you've no money, what are you goin' to do?"

And she turned the tear-stained, questioning face of a child up to the Judge.

"What were you going to do if the baby was taken in?"

"I'd have tried to get work somewhere, but you can't get work with a baby."

"Have you no friends?"

"No; only some girls in the store where I worked."

"How did you come to leave the baby where you did?"

"A girl in the hospital read in a paper about an old lady who had no children and who took a baby left on her doorstep, and so I left mine, thinking that if she saw her once, she is so pretty that she'd have to love her, and she'd have a chance to grow up like other girls. And I'd 'a' gone to work feeling that my baby had a home which I knowed I couldn't give her."

"But why didn't you go to some of the homes that are open to girls like you?"

"Homes? I didn't know of any."

"There are many institutions that would have helped you. Didn't any one tell you about them?"

"No; I wouldn't talk much with people. I was afraid that they'd send word to Mother, and I didn't want her to know and feel bad, so I didn't talk about myself. It's been awful hard—" and the babyish lips began to tremble.

"Do you want to keep the baby?"

The girl's face brightened.

"Do I want to—do I want to—But I can't! They tell me there's no place for a girl with a baby."

"Will you work?"

"Oh, Judge," and she drew the baby closer to her, "jest give me a chance! I'll work my fingers off for her. She's all I've got now, and —I'm—I'm—so lonely."

The Judge started to say something, but he was interrupted by a little old lady rising from one of the seats.

"Judge, jest you give me that girl and the baby. I'll take her."

The Judge looked over his glasses at the excited, flushed face of the old lady in front of him.

"What's that?"

"I said, jest you give me that girl and the baby, and I'll take her. I'll take her right home with me."

The Judge looked at her a moment in silence; then the young man beside the lady came forward and said:

"May I speak with you a moment, Judge Carlow?"

There was a whispered conference between the Judge, Dr. Eaton, and the kindly-faced, white-haired probation officer, and then the Judge turned to the young girl.

"Discharged in care of Miss Drusilla Doane," he said.

The girl and her baby came with the doctor through the gates which separated those who were entwined in the meshes of the law from the onlookers; then, stopping to get Drusilla, Dr. Eaton and his charge left the court-room.

The wondering girl was placed in the motor and whirled swiftly toward Brookvale.

Drusilla was quiet for a time. Then:

"Dr. Eaton," she said, "I believe we've found our nurses. Here's our first one. Why can't we find the other mothers?"

"I am afraid that would be rather difficult."

"Difficulties are made to get around. If this young girl is willin' to work to be with her baby, some of the other mothers must be the same. Perhaps some of 'em was in just the same fix as this one. Now, look at that letter of John's mother. It sounded as if she wouldn't 'a' left him if she could 'a' got work to keep him. Why can't we git as many mothers as we can and have them nurse the children? We got to have nurses of some kind, and the mothers'd be better than jest hired girls."

"It's a good idea, Miss Doane; but how can we get them? They naturally didn't leave their addresses."

"We'll advertise in the papers."

"But that would scare them; they would be afraid it would be a trap to get them arrested."

"Say in the papers that we won't arrest 'em, but that we'll give 'em a chance to support their babies and live with them while they're doin' it. Tell 'em I give my word that nothin'll happen to 'em. Git that young man that talked to me once. He said he'd do anything for me I asked him. Git him to write it all up."

Dr Eaton pondered thoughtfully for a few moments.

"It might work, and again it might not."

"Well, there ain't no harm tryin'. Fix up a good advertisement and put it in all the papers—Dutch, Italian, French and Irish. The babies are all kinds."

By the time they arrived at the big house in Brookvale Drusilla was very much interested in her new scheme.

"No," she said firmly to Dr. Eaton when he intimated that he must leave; "you ain't goin' now. Jest you come with me. Jane, you take this girl and this baby up to one of the spare rooms and see she has a bath and the baby some milk. Have you had your dinner? No; of course not. Jane, git her somethin' to eat—somethin' solid; not them finicky things the cook makes. Git her all fixed up; then come to me. Dr. Eaton, you come with me to that big room I was a lookin' at the other day."

She led the way to the third floor, where there was a big billiard room.

"Isn't this just the right kind of a room for babies?" she exclaimed. "Look at them windows to let the sun in! Now, how many beds can I put here? We'll take them big tables out and we can put a lot of beds side by side; and the nurse can sleep in this room here that opens out of it, with the littlest babies near her."

The doctor looked at the room.

"It seems made for a nursery, doesn't it?" he commented. "Let's see. You could put six little beds along each side, and a couple in the other room with the nurse's bed. That would more than dispose of your dozen already."

"And I been a-worryin' what to do with 'em all when I got this room! I ought 'a' been ashamed of myself! Now, you run right along and order the things we need—beds and whatever babies should have—and send them right up. Tell the storekeepers that they must git here at once or I won't take 'em. I can jest see James's face when I tell him his wife won't need to keep them five babies he's got any longer. I'll go and take my bunnet off and help move."

Within the next two days twelve little beds were established in the billiard room, and the little mother was installed as first nurse, with Jane and a couple of girls hired as assistants.

That evening Drusilla was sitting down to dinner—or supper, as she called it—when Mr. Thornton was ushered in. He was more severe and uncompromising than ever, and Drusilla said to herself, "I'm in for it. He's heard somethin'."

But she did not show that she was a wee bit nervous. She said, as if it were the usual thing for him to make her an evening call,

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Thornton? Won't you have some supper with me?"

"No, thank you. I came to talk with you."

"Now, that's real nice of you. I always like to talk. Set right down and we'll have a comfortable visit. You'd better change your mind and have some supper."

"No; my dinner is waiting for me."

"I eat my dinner in the middle of the day, though James will call it lunch. I think a great big dinner at night makes you dream of your grandmother, so I have mine like I used to."

"I understand that you have been to court, and brought home with you that woman and her child."

"Well, well! How news does travel! How did you hear that?"

"It is in the evening papers."

"Is it? Well, I do declare! It seems I can't do nothin' but what I git in the papers. I don't need to talk to git writ up; my money talks for me. What did they say?"

The lawyer drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to Drusilla. She took her glasses from her forehead, where they had been resting, and read aloud: MISS DRUSILLA DOANE, THE FRIEND OF THE FRIENDLESS.

"Well, ain't that nice of 'em!" she stopped to comment; then she went on reading.

"They seem to have it all down," she said, handing the paper back to Mr. Thornton.

He looked at her with the air he used when trying to frighten witnesses who opposed him.

"Of course, you will deny all this. You will make a statement that it is all a mistake, and that you do not intend to give these—these— wanderers a home."

"Now, that's a good word, Mr. Thornton; that's jest what they are— wanderers. But they won't be wanderers no more; they've found a home."

"What do you mean?"

"Jest what I said, Mr. Thornton. I mean to give that mother and her baby a home."

"I do not understand you at all, Miss Doane; or at least I hope I am mistaken in your meaning."

"I talk plain American."

"I have been waiting for you to send those children that have been left here to the proper authorities."

"Well, I'm an authority—or at least I seem to be one since I got all this money; and no one ain't ever said I wasn't proper."

"You are evading the question. I have said with the advent of each child that it should be sent, along with the others, to the police. They would dispose of them in the homes ordained for them."

"I ain't a Presbyterian, Mr. Thornton, and I don't believe in predestination and foreordination. Them babies of mine was never ordained for a home—the kind you mean; and I won't put 'em there. I got room and I got money to feed 'em and clothe 'em; so why shouldn't I keep 'em?"

"It is quite impossible, quite impossible!"

"Why impossible?"

"Why—why—my late client, Mr. Elias Doane—"

"Now, don't throw him in my teeth again. Elias Doane don't care whether I keep babies or poodle dogs, and I like babies best. Now, don't let's quarrel, Mr. Thornton," as she saw him give an exasperated shake of his head and rise as if to go. "Set still and talk it over with me calm like. Can't you see my side to it? I'm old and I'm lonesome, and I've always wanted babies but the Lord didn't see fit to let me have 'em, and now He's sent me these. I feel that I'd be a goin' against His plans if I didn't keep 'em. My old heart's jest full of love that's goin' to waste, and I want to give it to some one, and," laughing, "I can't waste much of it on you, can I? I don't want to die with it all shet up inside of me. I want to love these babies and learn 'em to love me. Why, what chance will a baby brung up in a 'home' have to know about love? How can they ever be learnt of the love of God when they grow up, if they don't learn something about love when they're little. They won't know the word. Don't be so set against it, Mr. Thornton"—she looked at him pleadingly for a moment, then her eyes twinkled—"though it won't do you much good as I'm set on this and I'm goin' to do it. Your late client, Mr. Elias Doane, said, 'Spend my money, Drusilla, in your own way'; and I'm takin' him at his word."

Mr. Thornton rose.

"Nothin more can be said then; but it is a disgrace to the neighborhood to have a home for waifs come to it."

Drusilla flushed hotly.

"Don't you call it that; and don't you call it a 'home'! It's a home, but not the kind you mean, and I won't hear it called that."

"I wash my hands of the affair. You will get into trouble, and when you do you may call on me."

Drusilla rose and laid her hand on Mr. Thornton's arm.

"I'm sure to get into trouble," she said. "I always was a hand to do that. But when I do you'll be the true, kind friend I know you are, and help me out."

Mr. Thornton smiled, against his will, as he looked down into the earnest face of the little old lady. He patted the hand on his arm.

"Miss Doane, you are causing me a lot of trouble not connected with the business of the estate; but of course I'll always help you. Every one will—they can't help it."

Drusilla drew a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad to know you ain't agin me, 'cause I like you, even when you almost always come here to scold me. You ain't near so stiff inside as you are outside. We're friends now, ain't we, babies or no babies?"

Mr. Thornton bent and kissed the withered old hand.

"Always, Miss Doane, babies or no babies; but you had better—"

"Never mind! You run along. Your dinner's cold by now. What you want to say'll keep till next time, and I know it ain't near as nice as what you said last. Good night."



CHAPTER VII

John Brierly came.

He first wrote Drusilla a long letter and Drusilla answered it by telegraph—an answer that brought a reminiscent smile to John Brierly's lips. It read:

"I can't talk by letter. Just come."

And John came.

He was met at the station by the young man from the lawyer's office who had been to see him in Cliveden, and when he arrived at the house he found Drusilla awaiting him. After the young man left, Drusilla said:

"John, come upstairs; I want to look at you, and I want to talk to you."

She took him up to the small library, which looked very cozy with its fire in the big grate and the heavy English curtains drawn at the windows.

"Now set down there in that chair, John. It was made for a man—no woman could ever get out of it without help once she got in—and tell me all about yourself, John."

John looked around the luxurious room in a hesitating manner.

"I hardly know what to say, Drusilla—I can't understand all this—I can't understand."

"Never mind, John; it's all real. I know how you feel. I felt that way myself for the first few weeks; but now I'm gettin' used to it."

"Is—is—this place yours, Drusilla?"

"Yes, it's mine. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, but now I just want to talk to you and about you. You want to smoke, don't you? Light your pipe and be comfortable. It'll make you think better."

John laughed.

"I do want to smoke."

He drew his pipe from some pocket and filled it from a worn tobacco pouch.

Drusilla watched him interestedly.

"Now I know what this room needed. It needs tobacco. It'll make the curtains smell as if people lived here. You know the greatest trouble I find with this place, John, is to have it feel human. Everything is so sort of—sort of—dead—with just me a-creepin' round, and James and William tip-toein', and the hired girls never speakin' except to say, 'No, ma'am' or 'Yes, ma'am.' Why, sometimes I'd like to hear somebody drop somethin', or get mad, or stomp, or do somethin' as if they was alive. Here, help me pull up the chair closer by the fire, where I can see you without putting on my specs. There, that is comfortable. Now tell me all about yourself."

John looked into the fire dreamily.

"Drusilla, I am afraid I have been a failure. Your mother was right; I've been always a dreamer and a failure."

Drusilla leaned toward him.

"Never you mind, John. So long as you haven't been a dreamer and a democrat, I can stand it. I never could abide democrats. Why didn't you ever marry?"

John looked at her.

"I couldn't, Drusilla."

Drusilla flushed at the look in his face and sat back in her chair.

"Oh—Oh—"

John said again, earnestly: "I just couldn't, Drusilla. When I got you out of my heart enough to look at another woman, I was too old to care."

"What are you going to do now?" Drusilla asked, to turn the conversation into another channel.

"What I have done for the last few years—sit quietly by and wait for the messenger to come."

"Stuff and nonsense, John! I don't believe in waitin' for messengers. That's meetin' them half way. I believe in bein' so busy that he'll have a hard time to catch up to me."

"But I'm old, Drusilla, and—"

"Old, nothin' of the sort! You ain't but two years older'n me and I'm jest beginnin' to live. Why I've jest took to raisin' children, John, and I'm goin' to watch 'em grow up; so I can't afford to think about being old or dyin'. I got to see these babies get started someway."

John looked at her curiously.

"Yes, you're surprised—so's everybody—and it kind of tickles me to surprise people. I've had to do the things expected of me all my life; I couldn't afford to surprise no one; so I feel like I'm breaking out now, and—and—" laughing, "I like it, John—I like it. Why, when Mr. Thornton stands up so stiff and straight and makes his mouth square and hard to say, 'Impossible!' why—why—my toes kind of wiggle around in delight like the babies do when you hold 'em to the fire. But I don't want to talk about myself; we got lots of time to do that. I want to know what you intend doin'."

"Nothing, Drusilla. I have enough to live on in my little town; and with my books, and—"

"But, John, you can't live with jest books."

"That's all I have left, Drusilla. All my friends are gone."

"That's what I wanted to hear. You ain't got no one that draws your heart back to that place in Ohio, have you?"

"No one in the world, Drusilla."

Drusilla settled back into her chair and gave a sigh of contentment.

"Then what I've been dreamin' of ever sence I saw your name in the paper can come true."

"What have you been a-dreaming of, Drusilla?"

Drusilla was silent for a few moments, looking thoughtfully into the fire. Then she said softly:

"Ever sence I knew you was alive, and after I sent that young man out to you and he told me about you, I jest been dreamin' of seein' you settin' there, smokin' your pipe, and me a-settin' here, talkin' to you, and I have come into this room more the last two weeks, lookin' at it, thinkin' how it would look with your things layin' around. You are alone, John, and I'm alone. As I wrote you, we are both two old ships that have sailed the seas alone for all these years, and now we're nearin' port. Why can't we make the rest of the voyage together? I have a home too big for one lone woman; you have no home at all. Years ago your home would 'a' been mine, if you could 'a' give it to me; and now I want to share mine with you. No—don't start," as she saw John make a movement, "I ain't proposin' to you, John. We're too old to think of such things, but I want to die with my hand in some one's who cares for me and who I care for. You're the only one in all the world that's left from out my past, and I want you near me."