“Oh, ma’am,” she pleaded, both hands extended, “Please don’t think me bold and horrid. I’m not bold, honest I’m not. I want to tell you all about it.” “I know all about it now, my dear, and I understand everything. I don’t think you are bold, and I’m very thankful that you came here. And now, my child, you will find some clean clothes laid out on the bed—for you and I are just about of a size, though I’m a married person and you’re a little girl. And here’s a glass of milk to go on, so to speak, while you are making yourself fine. By the time you are ready, there’ll be more porridge cooked for you. You like porridge, don’t you—with cream? And do you like muffins with raisins in them? I can cook some in no time. And bacon—shall it be bacon—and a few fried potatoes?” But Azalea had fled to make her toilet. It was, after all, not so quickly made as she might have hoped. As she stood in the simple, dainty room, with the pretty toilet table and the delicately perfumed soap and the great soft towels, all her longing for the cleanliness of the Ma McBirney days came over her, and when she emerged, at last, the muffins were as brown as nuts on top, and the bacon was done to a crisp. “Well!” cried Mrs. Summers when she saw the girl in her starched pink gingham, with smooth braids and “shining morning face” standing in the doorway. “Well!” The word seemed to mean much. It meant among other things that Mrs. Barbara liked the looks of her unexpected guest, and Azalea felt a pleasant wave of “homeyness” gently rippling over her. “And now for breakfast,” said little Mrs. Barbara. But at that moment Azalea saw what she thought was the sweetest thing her eyes ever had beheld. Baby Jonathan was in his tub down before the fire, and he was splashing with hands and feet till the water flew all about him on the blue oilcloth. “Oh, the little deary dear!” squealed Azalea, forgetting all about breakfast and dropping on her knees beside the rosy baby. “Oh, the little lovey, ducky, honey-pot!” She dropped a kiss at the back of his neck, and then deposited one in each of his moist, rosy palms. She twisted his golden, silk-fine ringlets about her finger, and counted his toes and his fingers to the immemorial rhyme of the little pig that went to market. “But, my dear,” protested the baby’s mother, “your breakfast is getting cold.” “Oh, I know, Mrs. Summers. But I like it cold. I do, really, ma’am. And then I’ve had ever so many breakfasts—Oh, ever and ever so many in my time. But I never saw a baby before, close too, and like this. I didn’t know they were so sweet. Why, he’s the very loveliest thing I ever saw. Are all babies as nice as this one?” Mrs. Barbara beamed, and her dark eyes looked deeper and sweeter than ever. “Well, I don’t think there are any quite as nice,” she said blushing beautifully. “But so far as I’ve seen they’re all more or less nice.” “I should think everybody would have ’em!” cried Azalea. “I certainly shall.”