By the time I returned with the hot water, she had taken off the child’s covering, and was sitting with it, wrapped in a blanket, before the fire. The little thing was cold as a stone, and now silent and motionless. We had found it just in time. Ethelwyn ordered me about as if I had been a nursemaid. I poured the hot water into a footbath. “Some cold water, Harry. You would boil the child.” “You made me throw away the cold water,” I said, laughing. “There’s some in the bottles,” she returned. “Make haste.” I did try to make haste, but I could not be quick enough to satisfy Ethelwyn. “The child will be dead,” she cried, “before we get it in the water.” She had its rags off in a moment--there was very little to remove after the shawl. How white the little thing was, though dreadfully neglected! It was a girl--not more than a few weeks old, we agreed. Her little heart was still beating feebly; and as she was a well-made, apparently healthy infant, we had every hope of recovering her. And we were not disappointed. She began to move her little legs and arms with short, convulsive motions. “Do you know where the dairy is, Harry?” asked my wife, with no great compliment to my bumps of locality, which I had always flattered myself were beyond the average in development. “I think I do,” I answered. “Could you tell which was this night’s milk, now?” “There will be less cream on it,” I answered. “Bring a little of that and some more hot water. I’ve got some sugar here. I wish we had a bottle.” I executed her commands faithfully. By the time I returned the child was lying on her lap clean and dry--a fine baby I thought. Ethelwyn went on talking to her, and praising her as if she had not only been the finest specimen of mortality in the world, but her own child to boot. She got her to take a few spoonfuls of milk and water, and then the little thing fell fast asleep.