“An' I'm glad he's back,” said the fostering aunt, “for I was a coomin' over to till ye that I've been hearin' from owle Pat, his dad, an' he's a coomin' back from the moines, and I don't know what he'd a' said if he'd found his leetle Pat was rinted. But if ye iver want to borry him, for a whoile, after owle Pat's gone back, ye kin have him, rint-free; an' it's much obloiged I am to ye, sir, fur dressin' him so foine.” I made no encouraging remarks as to future transactions in this line, and drove slowly home. Euphemia met me at the door. She had Pomona's baby in her arms. We walked together into the parlor. “And so you have given up the little fellow that you were going to do so much for?” she said. “Yes, I have given him up,” I answered. “It must have been a dreadful trial to you,” she continued. “Oh, dreadful!” I replied. “I suppose you thought he would take up so much of your time and thoughts, that we couldn't be to each other what we used to be, didn't you?” she said. “Not exactly,” I replied. “I only thought that things promised to be twice as bad as they were before.” She made no answer to this, but going to the back door of the parlor she opened it and called Pomona. When that young woman appeared, Euphemia stepped toward her and said: “Here, Pomona, take your baby.” They were simple words, but they were spoken in such a way that they meant a good deal. Pomona knew what they meant. Her eyes sparkled, and as she went out, I saw her hug her child to her breast, and cover it with kisses, and then, through the window, I could see her running to the barn and Jonas. “Now, then,” said Euphemia, closing the door and coming toward me, with one of her old smiles, and not a trace of preoccupation about her, “I suppose you expect me to devote myself to you.” I did expect it, and I was not mistaken. Since these events, a third baby has come to Rudder Grange. It is not Pomona's, nor was it brought from New Dublin. It is named after a little one, who died very young, before this story was begun, and the strangest thing about it is that never, for a moment, does it seem to come between Euphemia and myself. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rudder Grange, by Frank R. Stockton