"Dis yere chile ain't gwine to be no trouble to nobody," put in Aunt Mornin. "She's a powerful good chile to begin with, 'n' she's a chile that's gwine to thrive. She hain't done no cryin' uv no consequence yit, 'n' whar a chile starts out dat dar way it speaks well for her. If Mornin had de raisin' o' dat chile, dar wouldn't be no trouble 't all. Bile der milk well 'n' d'lute down right, 'n' a chile like dat ain't gwine to have no colick. My young Mistis Mars D'Willerby bought me from, I've raised three o' hern, an' I'm used to bilin' it right and d'lutin' it down right. Dar's a heap in de d'lutin'. Dis yere bottle's ready now, Mis' Doty, ef ye want it." "It's the very bottle I raised Martin Luther on," said Mrs. Doty. "It brings back ole times to see it. She takes it purty well, don't she? Massy sakes! How f'erce she looks for sich a little thing!" Later in the day there arose the question of how she should be disposed of for the night, and it was in the midst of this discussion that Tom De Willoughby entered. "Thar ain't but one room; I s'pose he'll sleep in that," said Mrs. Doty, "'n' the Lord knows he don't look the kind o' critter to know what to do with a chile. We hain't none o' us seen him since this mornin'. I guess he's kinder wanderin' round. Does any of you know whar he is? We might ax what he 'lows to do." Tom bent down over the child as it lay in the woman's lap. No one could see his face. "I know what he's going to do," he said. "He's going away to-morrow after the funeral." "'N' take the child?" in a chorus. "No," said Tom, professing to be deeply interested in the unclosing of the small red fist. "I'm going to take the child." There were four sharp exclamations, and for a second or so all four women gazed at him with open mouths. It was Mrs. Doty who first recovered herself sufficiently to speak. She gave him a lively dig with her elbow. "Now, Tom D'Willerby," she said, "none of your foolin'. This yere ain't no time for it." "Mars D'Willerby," said Aunt Mornin, "dis chile's mother's a-lyin' dead in the nex' room." Tom stooped a trifle lower. He put out both his hands and took the baby in them. "I'm not foolin'," he said, rather uncertainly. "I'm in earnest, ladies. The mother is dead and the man's going away. There's nobody else to claim her, he tells me, and so I'll claim her. There's enough of me to take care of her, and I mean to do it." It was so extraordinary a sensation, that for a few moments there was another silence, broken as before by Mrs. Doty. "Waal," she remarked, removing her snuff-stick and expectorating into the fire. "Ye've allus been kinder fond o' chillun, Tom, and mebbe she ain't as colicky by natur' as Martin Luther was, but I mus' say it's the curi'sest thing I ever heern--him a-gwine away an' givin' her cl'ar up as ef he hadn't no sort o' nat'ral feelin's--I do say it's curi's." "He's a queer fellow," said Tom, "a queer fellow! There's no denying that."