“A baby,” repeated Miss McCox firmly. “A baby as didn’t ought to have come, but it’s there.” “Oh!” said Ruth weakly. “Well, what do you think about it?” Miss McCox fingered the amber brooch. This Ruth knew to be a distinct sign of weakness. “The young woman’s civil spoken, and I reckon there’s worse about _with_ their ring on,” she said darkly. “I’m willin’ to try her, if you are.” Ruth hid a smile among the yellow chicks. The charm of Bertram Aurelius had worked. “But the baby?” she asked. “Can we possibly manage with the baby?” “Why not?” returned Miss McCox sharply. “Babies aren’t much trouble, God knows! It’s the grown-ups make _me_ sick!” So Bertram Aurelius came to live at Thorpe, and was rapidly absorbed into the life on the farm. He was a good and cheerful infant, and anyone could take charge of him. He was equally contented, whether viewing the world over Ruth’s shoulder while she inspected the farm, or in his cradle in the corner of the kitchen listening to curious noises called singing, which Miss McCox, to the amazement of the whole establishment, produced for his benefit. He would lie among the hay in a manger, even as the Babe of all time, while Ruth and the cowman milked, or on his crawler on the terrace, guarded by Sarah and Selina, who took to him much as if he had been one of those weird black and white puppies of Sarah’s youthful indiscretion. And Gladys, his mother, worked cheerfully and indefatigably to please, sitting at Miss McCox’s feet for instructions, and the peace and comfort of Thorpe deepened and broadened day by day. It was now near mid-June, and the fine weather still held. Day after day broke to unclouded sunshine, a world full of flowers and the rhythmic life of growing things. The seeds and baby plants cried for rain, the hay and fruit crops would suffer, but Ruth, her heart torn both ways, could not regret. It was all so beautiful, and when the rain came, who could tell? It might be all the real summer weather of the year, this wonderful May and June. To-day, little ever-so-soft white clouds broke the clear blue of the sky, but there was still no sign of change. The wild roses and the broom were in perfection, and everywhere was the honey and almond scent of gorse; the buttercup glory was over but the ox-eyed daisies were all out, turning their sweet moon faces to the sun.