At last they were taken to one of the great modistes, a creator of gowns known on two continents, and Daphne had Miss Doane wait in a reception-room while she interviewed the great lady herself. This arbitrator of fashion came smilingly to Miss Doane and with her keen, professional eye saw her "possibilities." She said to Miss Thornton:
"Will you leave it to me? I will make her the gowns and she will be pleased."
Measurements were taken and orders given; and when they were again in the motor, Drusilla asked shyly:
"What was that last place, Miss Thornton?"
"That is Marcelle, the great dressmaker's place. That was Marcelle herself who came to us."
"Was that a dressmaking shop? I didn't see no dresses or fashion books."
"No, she doesn't use fashion books. She makes her own fashions."
"But—but—we jest got two new dresses."
Miss Thornton laughed.
"Oh, those are because we were in a hurry. Your dresses must bemade. I told her she must hurry, too; and her things are beautiful, Miss Doane. You'll love yourself in them."
Drusilla laughed softly.
"I'm afraid I love myself already. It seems awful vain for an old woman like me to be buying all them pretty clothes—but—" and she sighed like a happy child—"it's nice to be vain for once in your life. It's justnice."
"Of course it is. All women love pretty clothes."
"Yes; it must be something born inside of us, 'cause I don't know as I've ever had such a feelin' even when readin' the Bible as I did when I tried on them hats, and bought them dresses, and knowed they wasmine." She was quiet for a moment. "I wonder if Eve ever had the chance to be extravagant in fig leaves?"
"Well, we've bought them, and Father's hair will certainly turn gray, but he can't say a word. Now we'll go to lunch. It's late; you must be hungry. I'm glad we found a coat that fitted you—that velvet is so soft and pretty. And your hat—why, Miss Doane, you won't know yourself!"
"Is it pretty? It ought to be. It's got ten dollars of hat and thirty dollars of style; but I don't care. I'm so happy that I'm afraid I'll cry and spoil it all."
But she did not cry and she enjoyed the luncheon at the big hotel, and as she ate she stole shy glances in the mirror opposite that reflected a transformed Drusilla from the frightened little woman who had gone tremblingly down the steps of the Doane home the day before.
The next few days passed in a whirl of excitement for Drusilla. Dresses were bought for her to fit, and she went into town with Daphne on visits to the great dressmaker, who turned and studied Drusilla as gown after gown was fitted to her slim, yet still erect old figure. But finally they were all finished and great boxes came to the house. They were opened by Jeanne and their treasures spread upon the chairs and the bed to be admired and fingered lovingly by Drusilla, who took as much joy in her new clothes as any girl with her first trousseau. Except for the Bible and the life of John Calvin the contents of the little trunk were lost, so far as Drusilla was concerned. She became another being, as, clothed in soft-toned grays, her hair dressed by the hand of expert Jeanne, she gradually lost her feeling of loneliness, of being a person apart from her new life, and began to move with confidence amongst the treasured beauties of her new home.
The pretty gowns gave her a feeling of respect for herself that she had never experienced before, and for the first time in her life she felt within herself apower. Her opinions were deferred to, her wishes carried out immediately, and it seemed to her that all the world was trying to give her happiness. It took her many days to feel that she might ask for service instead of waiting upon herself; but she soon learned that the many servants were there for her especial use, and expected to be called upon to render any service that she required.
At first she was embarrassed when the housekeeper came to her in the mornings for orders for the day, and she confided to Daphne that she didn't know what to tell her. Daphne interviewed the housekeeper privately and then said to Drusilla, "I have seen Mrs. Perrine and told her that she doesn't need to come to you in the morning, as she understands what is to be done. If there is anything special, you will tell her, but you are not to be bothered with the details of the house now. After a while, perhaps, you will care to attend to some of the things, and tell her what you would like; but don't let it worry you until you get used to it all. I told the chef, too, that he need not send up the menu for the day, as he did to Mr. Doane."
Miss Thornton could not know how thankful Drusilla was for this last order, as the consideration of the menu had been a great embarrassment to her. It was written in French—a language quite unknown to Drusilla—and although she could not read the names of the marvelous creations of the cook, the food delighted her and the quiet, skilful service was always a wonder. The mechanism of the great household seemed to move with almost a machine's precision, and she felt that she was in a world that revolved to the order of unseen hands.
She had been in her new home but a few days when a card was brought her, and she read on it:Thomas Carney, The New York Times. She went to the library, wondering what some strange man could want with her. She found a very quick, alert young man, with twinkling blue eyes, who rose to greet her. She gave him her hand and asked him to be seated. He sat down, and then question after question was asked Drusilla. What relation she was to Elias Doane? Had she ever known him? How she had passed her life; the details of the life in the Doane home; how many years she had been there? Her impressions of her new home; what she intended doing with her million dollars; if she had any relatives to whom she would leave her money? Was she interested in charities? Did she believe in promiscuous giving, or would she help personally the objects of her charity?
Poor Drusilla heard the flood of questions in amazement, and answered them quite frankly; and the keen young newspaper man read much between the answers that showed the loneliness of her life, her bewilderment in her new surroundings, and he congratulated himself that he would have an article for his Sunday paper that not only would be filled with facts but also would have "heart interest."
When he rose to go he asked her if she had a photograph of herself.
She laughed.
"No, I ain't never had my pictur' took since I was a young girl and had it on a tintype."
Nothing daunted, the young man asked for it; but she had to tell him that she had lost it years ago; and then he asked if he might take her photograph as she sat there in her high-backed chair. Drusilla was a little awed by this very confident young man, so she sat still while he took her photograph, and then when he was ready to depart, she hesitatingly said:
"Young man, you have asked me a lot of questions. May I ask you one?"
He laughed.
"Certainly! As many as you want."
"Well, why have you asked me so many things?"
"I represent the New YorkTimes, a newspaper, and we want to tell the people all about you."
"Aboutme? Why should they want to know aboutme?"
The man laughed again, pleasantly, and said:
"You know we like to know about our neighbors, and you are the newest neighbor."
"But are you going to write all I said?"
"Well, nearly all; but, Miss Doane, if there is anything you don't want written, I'll cut it."
Drusilla was embarrassed.
"Have I said anything that I shouldn't? If I had known you was from a paper, I'd 'a' waited until Mr. Thornton come."
"I'm jolly glad you didn't. Little copy could have been squeezed from that old lawyer. But don't you worry, Miss Doane. There won't be anything that will hurt you. It's kind of you to see me. I have been trying for several days to get in, but couldn't get past that butler of yours. He sure is a wonder."
"Did the butler stop you?"
"Well, yes; he stood at the door like an armored cruiser. I wouldn't have made it to-day if I hadn't waited until I saw him go out. I knew the second man was at his home and only a maid in charge of you."
Drusilla was unhappy.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have seen you. It must have been Mr. Thornton's orders, and he knows what is best for me."
She crossed over to the young man and looked rather pitifully up into his face.
"You look like a nice young man," she said; "I like your eyes. You won't say nothing that'll make Mr. Thornton unhappy?"
The reporter took the half-outstretched hand and smiled down into the kindly, wrinkled face. When he spoke there was almost a touch of tenderness in his voice.
"I don't care about making Mr. Thornton unhappy, Miss Doane, but I wouldn't do anything to makeyouunhappy for the world; and if you ever want anything of the papers, here is my card. Just you send for me and I'll do anything for you that I can."
And so ended Drusilla's first interview.
To her amazement the next Sunday there was spread before her the paper with great headlines: MISS DRUSILLA DOANE, OUR NEWEST MILLIONAIRE. There was the picture of the Doane home for old ladies; there were pictures of the home at Brookvale taken from many angles, pictures of the garden, the conservatories; and in the middle of the page there was Drusilla herself, sitting in the high-backed chair. The article was well written, filled with "heart interest." It told of her early struggles, her years of work, and her later life in the charity home. Evidently the young man had visited the village where she had lived and talked with all who knew her; and Mrs. Smith's hand could plainly be seen in the account of the life of the inmates of the institution over which she had charge. Even poor old Barbara had been called upon to tell about Drusilla, the many little acts of kindness which she had done for the poor and lonely. As Drusilla read it she laughed and said, "Well, I guess Barbara had her teeth in that day." The article ended with the account of the million dollar bequest, and suggested that quite likely the charities of New York would benefit by the newest acquisition to the ranks of its millionaires, as Miss Doane was alone in the world, and had no one on whom to lavish her enormous income or to leave the money when she was called to the other world.
Drusilla did not know it, but this last addition of the facile reporter's pen set many heads of institutions to thinking, and caused many a person to wonder how they could gain the affections or the pity of this old lady, and separate her from at least a part of her new-found inheritance.
Drusilla passed many hours among the flowers in the conservatories, where she won the heart of the gardener by the keen interest she took in his work. He would walk around with her and tell her the names of the plants strange to her, pointing out their beauties and their peculiarities. He soon saw that the orchids and the rare blooms from foreign lands did not appeal to her as did the old-fashioned flowers she knew, and they made a little bargain that in the spring she should have some beds of mignonette, phlox, verbenas, and moss rose. One morning she watched him giving directions to one of the under-gardeners for the potting of small plants for the spring.
"Mr. Donald," she said, "I wish I could plant somethin'. It's been years since I dug around in the earth, and I want to plant somethin' and see it grow."
"That's easy, ma'am," said Scotch Mr. Donald. "I'll fix a part of the house here and you can plant what you want in it"; and after that many mornings found Drusilla pottering happily around the conservatory with a trowel, planting seeds or "slipping" plants as she called it. It gave her something to do, and that was the one thing she needed. She missed the active life, the "doing something." Everything was done for her—she had no duties. She, who had passed her life in service for others, here had only to mention a wish and it was immediately carried out. She was not allowed even to look after her clothing. As soon as an article was removed it was whisked out of the room and when returned was brushed, mended, and ready for use again.
One afternoon Drusilla sat down by the window to mend a tear on the bottom of her skirt. Jeanne, coming into the room, quickly took the garment from her.
"Madame, she must not do that.Quelle horreur!I will attend to it at once."
Drusilla laughed.
"Can't I even patch my dress?" she said. "Jane, where are my stockin's? I am sure there must be some darnin'."
Jeanne looked at her reproachfully.
"Madame does not wear darned stockings."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Drusilla. "Why shouldn't I wear darned stockin's?"
"Yes, but it would not beau faitfor Madame to wear darned stockings."
Drusilla became a little angry.
"How foolish you are, Jane! I've wore darned stockin's all my life. A few darns don't hurt one way or another. What becomes of my stockin's? I saw a hole in one the other day."
Jeanne looked a little embarrassed.
"Why—why—when they become notconvenablefor Madame, I—I take them."
"Oh," said shrewd Drusilla, looking at Jeanne over her glasses. "And I presume you are the judge of when they become 'convenable'—whatever that means. But you'd better let me tell you when I think they're ready to be passed on."
Drusilla sat back in the chair with folded hands for a few moments; then she looked down at them as they lay idly in her lap.
"I don't see what I'm goin' to do with my hands. I've always had a work-basket by my side whenever I set down, and now you just expect me to set. Well, I'm tired of it; I want todosomething."
A few of the neighbors, headed by Mrs. Thornton, the typical New York woman devoted to "society," made calls upon Drusilla; and when the first caller's card was brought to Drusilla, she went into the drawing-room and greeted the stylishly dressed lady who rose to meet her, wondering why she had come. The lady sat down and talked to Drusilla about the weather, asked how she liked Brookvale, spoke of the opera season and of a new singer, asked her if she cared for symphonies, which Drusilla thought at first was something to eat, mentioned a ball that was being given at Sherry's that night for charity; and then departed, leaving Drusilla still wondering why she came. Evidently she told her friends of her visit, as many came, some from curiosity and others from real kindliness and desire to be friendly with their newest neighbor.
One day Daphne saw the cards.
"Oh," she said, "has Mrs. Druer called, and Mrs. Cairns, and Mrs. Freeman. I am so glad. You must return the call."
"Is that a call? What did they come for? I been wondering about it ever since they come."
"They are your neighbors."
"Oh, is that the way they are neighborly in the city? Set down and talk about nothing for ten minutes and then go home. Well, I don't see as it's very fillin'."
"They want to get acquainted."
"Well, why don't they stay a while and git acquainted? We jest git started to talkin' when they go away. Where I lived when a neighbor come to see you, they brought their sewin' and spent the afternoon. You can't git acquainted settin' opposite each other and wonderin' what to say. Why, they all look when they git ready to go, 'Well, I've done my duty; thank goodness it's over!'"
Daphne laughed.
"You must go and return the calls."
"You mean that I must go to their houses and do what they done—set ten minutes and ask them about the weather and the opera and symphonies? I don't know nothin' about them things at all."
"You needn't ask them about the opera, but you must return their calls."
Drusilla shook her head.
"No, I won't do it."
"Oh, but you must."
"But I won't, Miss Thornton," said Drusilla obstinately. "I don't know what to say."
"I'll go with you, Miss Doane."
"Well—" and Drusilla was a little pacified—"well, I'll go once and see what it's like. I'll do anything once, but I won't promise to do it much."
"Never mind; you must return the first calls. I'll come for you to-morrow and we'll go. You have cards—I had them made for you; and I'll bring my new cardcase. No, I'll get you the dearest bag I saw downtown. Gray suede with a cardcase and mirror in it, and a pencil and everything you need."
"What do I want a mirror in my hand satchel for?"
"Why to powder your nose if it gets shiny, Miss Doane. You're not up to date. You must have a vanity box in your bag or you won't be in it at all now."
Drusilla laughed.
"You ain't forgot how vain I was that first day when I peeked in all the mirrors at the hotel. But now I can pass one without lookin' in, if I ain't got a new dress on."
"Speaking of dresses, Miss Doane, put on that dark gray velvet that Marcelle made you and the hat with the mauve. Oh, I wish it were cold, so you could wear your new furs. But—well—they'll see them all after a while. We mustn't astonish themtoomuch at first."
"Do I have to fix up so much?"
"But I want them to see how pretty you are."
Drusilla blushed like a girl.
"Pshaw, Miss Thornton, don't you know I'm past seventy years old? You shouldn't say such things."
"Oh, but I mean it. Margaret Fairchild, who was here with her mother, told the girls the other night at the dance that she couldn't keep her eyes off of you, as you sat with the light on your hair, and your pretty dress that was so half old-fashioned and half the latest style. She said you looked as if you had just stepped out of a picture."
"It's my clothes, I guess."
"Yes, it's partly the clothes, and that's where Marcelle is clever. She makes the clothes suityou, and doesn't try to make a fashionable middle-aged woman out of you. She spoke of your hands too, said they looked so—so—sort of feminine as they lay on the arms of the chair. You are clever, Miss Doane, to always sit on one of those high-backed chairs when callers come; it makes a lovely background."
"Does it? I hadn't thought of that. I generally set in the chair that's nearest the door; and I like one with arms that I can take hold of, 'cause it makes me nervous to have the women stare at me, and sometimes when there is such a long time between talks, I hold on to the arm tight so's I won't show I'm nervous and wonderin' what to say to fill in. But I didn't think any one noticed my hands." She looked down at them rather sadly. "They've always worked hard and I guess they show the marks."
"Oh, your hands are beautiful, Miss Doane. I can't ever believe you have worked with them."
"Can't you? I never had my hands idle in my lap in all my life till I come here. But—well, they ought to have something happen to 'em the way Jane works with 'em. Whenever I let her she's fussin' with my hands with little sticks and knives, until sometimes I'd like to box her ears. How any one can spend so much time just settin' still and lettin' some one fuss with their hands, I don't see. But I let her do it, as I don't have much else to do here but just set still, and she'd better fool with my hands than spend her time talkin' with William, which she does enough as it is."
"Oh, is Jeanne flirting?"
"Now, I shouldn't say anything. But I can't help seein' things, even if they do think I'm an old woman with my eyes half shut."
"I'll speak to Father about it."
"No, you won't, Miss Thornton. Leave her alone. It ain't much company for a young girl like her just to wait on an old woman like me; and William seems a nice young man. I like him, Miss Thornton, but I jest can't bear the sight of James."
Daphne turned quickly.
"Has James been impertinent to you?"
Drusilla shook her head.
"No, not at all. I wish he would be impudent oranythingexcept jest stand around and look grand. He don't approve of me, Miss Thornton—even his back when he leaves the dining-room says he don't approve of me. I never seen a back that can say so much as his'n."
"Well, if you don't like him I will speak to Father and he will get another butler."
"No, don't do that. He don't do nothin' to lose his place for; and I'd hate to have to git used to another back. He never says a word, but he jestlooks; but perhaps he'll git over it, or I'll git used to it, or maybe when I git more used to things I'll talk to him and ask him if he can't be a little more human, instead of lookin' like the chief mourner at a funeral. It sometimes makes me feel that I'm dead and he's takin' the last look."
Daphne laughed.
"Oh, that's his way. He's English, you know, and English servants are trained to look like mummies."
"Well, he certainly had good trainin'. What time do we go callin' to-morrow? I want to git it over."
"I'll come for you at four, and I'll tell them to have the small car ready. Good-by. I'm going to a great big tea where I am to pour. I love to give tea, although I always give the wrong person lemon."
The next day Jeanne, being told that Drusilla was going to call upon the ladies of the neighborhood, took extra care in dressing her; and when Daphne came, Drusilla was a very richly, exquisitely dressed old lady waiting for her car. The bag delighted Drusilla and she examined the fittings, and looked at the little vanity case with its tiny powder puff and mirror. Daphne laughed as she saw her peep into the mirror.
"Oh, Miss Doane, you're just like us all. We can't pass a mirror without a peep."
Drusilla said: "I wonder if we ever git too old not to want to see ourselves. As long as I can have hats like this one, I won't. Ain't it funny what clothes can do for you. Now with my velvet dress I ain't a bit afraid to go in that big house, in the front door and set down in the parlor, while if I had on my old black dress, I'd feel that I belonged in the kitchen. Yet it's the same Drusilla Doane inside."
Drusilla made many calls that afternoon. At some of the places, being told that the lady was not at home, a card was left.
"Pshaw now," she said to Daphne, "will I have to come again, now she ain't at home?"
"No," said Daphne; "she'll find your cards and know you have called. That's all you have to do."
"Well, that's one good thing"—and Drusilla was relieved to find that the disagreeable duty was so quickly done. "If I'd a knowed that, I'd a sent William to tell me when they was out and then I'd a come."
"Oh, but you'll like your neighbors when you know them. Here—Mrs. Crane is at home, I know"—and Drusilla spent a most miserable half hour sitting on the edge of a hard chair, wishing Daphne would rise as a signal to leave. Tea was served by a maid, and Drusilla held the cup awkwardly, while she ate the little wafer and infinitesimal sandwich which was passed with it.
"Why didn't they have a table?" she asked when they were outside. "I was in mortal fear that I'd spill the tea on my new dress—and I don't eat well with my gloves on."
Two more calls of the same kind were made and as they were turning into another gate, Drusilla leaned forward and said to the chauffeur: "Joseph, go straight ahead." Then, turning to Daphne, Drusilla said: "We're goin' for a ride now; we ain't goin' to spoil this lovely day with no more calls."
Drusilla would not listen to Daphne's remonstrances, and the motor flew along the beautiful drive overlooking the Hudson. Drusilla did not speak for a time, simply enjoying the ride. Then she turned to the girl.
"Daphne, what does subsidize mean."
Daphne frowned for a moment.
"I wonder if I can tell. I know what it means but it is hard to say it. It means to pay a certain sum of money to some one or some thing. For instance, the ships that carry the mails for some governments are subsidized; or if the government wants to aid some project, to enable it to start, it subsidizes it—that is, gives it a certain sum per year like a salary. Have I made myself clear? Father could tell you better than I can."
"I guess I see what it is," Drusilla said.
"Why do you want to know?" queried Daphne.
"Well, I got a little mixed up in what it meant. I got a letter this morning from some man—some poet I guess he is—who said that I should leave my money to subsidize struggling poets, who had a great message to give the world, but who had to work so hard making a livin' that they didn't git no chance to give the message. I'm afraid I got kind of mixed up—I could think of nothin' but etherize. I guess it was the strugglin' that confused my mind, and I been wondering why I could etherize a lot of struggling young poets. But now I understand."
"Well, of all the impertinence—"
"I don't know, Daphne; there's some truth in what he said. He said that nations needed great thoughts as well as they needed great inventions—them's his words not mine—and often rich men subsidized a poor inventor or a poor scientist so's they could have time to make their inventions and not have to worry over their daily bread; so why shouldn't it be done for the poets who would then have time to give great thoughts to the people, thoughts that would inspire them to noble deeds and works. There's a lot of sense in what he says."
"But you would neverthinkof doing such a thing—"
"No, of course not; but I like to hear about it. And I been a studyin' a lot about that young man,—I am sure he was young or he wouldn't have had the courage to write me; it's only the young who have the courage totry."
"I call itnerve," said Daphne scornfully; "plainnerve."
"Yes, perhaps it is. But I was thinkin' about this young man who has got a feelin' inside of him that he could say somethin' that would make the world better, and he tries, then he's got to go to an office or somewhere and perhaps count rolls of cloth, or he may be a newspaper man who has to write stories of murders and divorces and—and—things like that, when beautiful things is just a chokin' him."
She was silent for a moment.
"It's an awful thing to be poor, Daphne—real poor. Yet—" she said musingly, "even when you're real poor you can always find somethin' to give. Like Mis' Sweet. Did I ever tell you about Mis' Sweet? She lived in our village and she was mortal poor all her life. When her husband lived he didn't do no more work than he had to and she had to git along as best she could, and then when he died she lived with her son, who was so mean and stingy that he made her go to bed at dark so's she wouldn't burn kerosene. She was so poor that she never had cookies or cakes to send her neighbors, and it kind o' cut her, because in the country we was always sendin' some little thing we'd been bakin' to each other, because that's about the only kind of presents country women can make to each other, somethin' they make themselves.
"So Mis' Sweet felt kind o' bad that she couldn't make no return. But, as I says, one ain't never too poor but that they kin give something. Now Mis' Sweet and nothin' pretty in her house, and never saw much that was beautiful, but she had beautiful thoughts inside, and she loved the flowers and things that grew around her.
"Mis' Sweet made paper flowers trying to say the beautiful things she felt inside, jest like that poet. She couldn't buy none of the pretty crinkled papers that we see nowadays; she never saw none of those; but she saved all the little pieces of tissue paper, and any scrap of silk, and the neighbors saved 'em for her too, and they saved their broom wire; and no one ever thought of throwin' away an old green window shade—it was sent to Mis' Sweet for her leaves. She twisted the broom wires with any piece of green paper that she could git hold of, and she cut the papers into flowers, the white ones into daisies and the little pieces of silk was colored with dyes that the neighbors give her that they had left over, and she made roses and apple blossoms and begonias and geraniums, and all the flowers that she knowed. If some were peculiar and didn't look like much o' anything she called them jest wild flowers. She made them all into bouquets. And there wasn't a new baby born in the village but that the mother found by her bedside a bouquet of Mis' Sweet's, and no bride went to the altar but she had a little piece o' orange blossom on her that had been lovingly pinned on by Mis' Sweet, and before the lid was closed over our dead—they had slipped in their fingers a little flower from their old neighbor. And do you think that we laughed at her stiff little bouquets? No! We all loved 'em and we understood, 'cause with each leaf made out of our old window shades and from each wire from our wore out brooms, there was a little love mixed in with the coverin'."
She was silent for a few moments; then she added:
"And I think that this young poet will find a way to give something to the world, if he really loves it and wants to give, same as Mis' Sweet did."
They were returning home along the drive.
"We haven't made half the calls that we should," Daphne said. "We must go another day."
Drusilla shook her head decisively.
"No; I won't make no more calls."
"Oh, but, Miss Doane, youmust. You must return your calls."
"Oh, but I mustn't, and I won't," said Drusilla, shaking her head obstinately. "I most froze at some of them places, and I won't risk it again. I won't make calls. They can come to me, Miss Thornton, but I won't go back."
"But they won't come to see you if you don't return the calls."
"Well, they can stay at home then—it ain't much loss on either side."
"But what will you do?"
"I'll send William to know when they are out, and he can leave my cards jest as well as I can. I won't go into them rooms and drink tea out of my lap and eat with my gloves on, and talk about things I don't know nothin' about and don't care even if I did. I'm too old to begin such foolishness."
"But what will I tell them when they ask why you don't return their calls?"
"You can tell them anything you want to. Iwon'tgo."
Daphne said mischievously: "I'll say you are averyold lady, andfeeble, and cannot take the exertion of making calls."
Drusilla sat up very straight and a slight flush appeared on her cheeks.
"You'll saynosuch thing, Daphne Thornton. You say the truth, that I don't see no sense in it. Old indeed! I'm not so old; and as to being feeble—"
Daphne snuggled her face against the arm near her.
"Oh, you are a dear, Miss Doane. I love to see you get angry. Butyousay you are old!"
"That's different. I say it with my own meanin', and generally to pet out of doin' somethin' I don't want to do. But I'm growin' younger each minute. Perhaps"—she chuckled softly to herself—"it's my second childhood."
They came to the door, and it was opened by James—stiff, correct, funereal.
"No," almost groaned Drusilla; "there's James. Now I know I'm dead and only waitin' for the buryin'."
Drusilla grew more and more to feel that she was a part of her little world, where everything revolved around her and her wishes were law. It was only natural that she gained confidence in herself. She lost her awe of the servants, and even found courage to speak shortly to James, who, she learned from Jeanne, was relegating most of his duties to William, thinking Miss Doane would not know the difference.
But after the excitement of the first few weeks was past she found the time heavy on her hands. She had no duties, she did not read, there was no sewing nor mending for her, and she could not always work in the conservatories among the flowers; consequently she began to long for something with which to occupy her thoughts and, above all, her hands.
One morning when she was wandering aimlessly around the house she went into the pastry room. There she looked in delight at all the shining pans and the bowls arranged in graduated sizes on their shelves.
"My, ain't it nice, and everything so handy!"
She looked around for a minute; then a thought began to take shape in Drusilla's mind. She looked at the chef thoughtfully; then, evidently deciding, she gave her head a little toss and with a light laugh left the room, soon to return with a big gingham apron covering her pretty dress. The chef looked at her inquiringly.
"Cook," Drusilla said, "I'm hungry for some home cookin' and I want to do it myself. I ain't cooked none fer a good many years, and my fingers is jest itchin' to git into the flour. Where's your flour and things to make cake?"
The chef was shocked.
"Mais, Madame."
"Yes, Madame may, and she's goin' to; so show me where the things is." She rolled up her sleeves. "Now you git me that big yellow bowl, and give me the lard. I'm goin' to make doughnuts—fried cakes I used to call 'em, tho' it's more stylish to say doughnuts these days. I don't like them that's bought in the store with sugar sprinkled on top; sugar don't belong on fried cakes. It takes away their crispiness and you might jest as well be eatin' cake."
Drusilla kept the chef busy waiting on her until she had all the articles needed. Then she turned upon him.
"Now, you go away. Go up to your room, or down to James. I don't want you standin' round lookin' as if you was goin' to bust every minute. You got to git used to this. I'm goin' to have a bakin' day once a week, same as I did for forty year."
Drusilla spent a happy morning. The "fried cakes" finished, she decided to make some cookies—the "old-fashioned kind that my mother's sister Jane give me the receipt of; I kind o' want to see if I have lost my hand."
But the hand had not lost its cunning if the great dish of brown, crisp doughnuts, and the cookies and the gingerbread were a test. After they were baked and in a row on the table, she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, with a proud expression on her kindly old face.
"Now if I only had some one to come in and say, 'Drusilla, is them fresh fried cakes?' and I'd laugh and say, 'Yes; do try 'em,' and they'd eat three or four. Or if I only had some neighbors—"
Drusilla stopped suddenly.
"Now, whyshouldn'tI! I've got neighbors that's all been tryin' to be neighborly to me in their way; why shouldn't I be neighborly inmyway? I can't be neighborly jest leavin' a card, or drinkin' tea with my gloves on—Yes, I will! Drusilla'll be neighborly inDrusilla'sway."
She was as delighted as a child at the thought. She hurried into the pantry and returned with some plates and napkins. She piled a few of her confections upon each plate, carefully covered it with a napkin, then called William.
"William," she said, "you take that plate o' cookies over to Mis' Gale's, and tell her that I sent 'em, bein' it was my bakin' day. See she gets 'em and they don't stop in the kitchen. And take that plate o' gingerbread to Mis' Cairns; and them fried cakes to Mis' Freeman; and tell 'em all I sent 'em with my love. Tell 'em I made 'em myself."
William looked at her but did not move.
"What you lookin' at me fer? Take 'em as I said. Put 'em in a basket if you can't carry 'em, or have one of the girls help you."
"But, ma'am, but—"
"But what? Ain't you never took cookies to one before?"
"Why—why—no, ma'am. Never in the houses where I've served—"
"Now that'll do, William. Don't begin that. That's what James always says when he specially wants to be disagreeable. If you haven't ever took a neighbor a plate o' cookies or some gingerbread, right hot out of the oven, you've missed a lot. So do as I say!"
"But—ma'am—I'm sure they have all the cakes they need. Mr. Cairns is a—very—very rich man, and they have a cook, a French cook. Why, he has an income of more than a million dollars a year, and—and—"
Drusilla looked at him over her glasses.
"Land o' Goshen, has he? That's a heap o' money; but I'm sure that if he has a French cook like mine, he'll be mighty glad to have an old-fashioned fried cake; so take that plate to him too, and I'll fix another for Mis' Freeman. He ain't never sence he was a boy set his teeth in better fried cakes. Perhaps the cookies won't be so much to his taste; but you tell 'em they're nice fer the children to slip in their apron pockets to eat at recess."
William executed his errand, although with a feeling that the dignity of the place was not being upheld. There was a luncheon party at the Cairns mansion, and when the butler brought in the plate of cookies and the doughnuts and delivered the message, trying his best not to smile, Mrs. Cairns looked at them in dismay.
"What did you say, John?"
"Miss Doane sent them to you with her love. She said that it was her baking day, and that she had made them herself. The cookies are for the children to slip in their apron pockets and eat at recess," recited the butler with an immobile face.
Mrs. Cairns raised the napkins and surveyed the cakes; then she looked at her husband and her guests. They laughed; that is, the guests did, but not Mr. Cairns.
"Take them to the kitchen, John," Mrs. Cairns ordered. "The servants may have them."
"No; bring them here, John," Mr. Cairns said sharply. "You may go and say that Mrs. Cairns thanks Miss Doane very much for her thoughtfulness in remembering her on her baking day, and that she is sure she will enjoy the doughnuts—and the cookies will be given to the children."
The servant left the room, and Mr. Cairns sat very quietly looking at the plates before him. He took up one of the doughnuts, studied it, then finally took a bite of it.
"Hot," he said, "and crispy."
He was quiet a moment, with a far away look in his eye; then, as if noticing the silence of his guests, he said with a quiet laugh:
"It takes me back—back—. Bless her old soul! I understand. And it takes me back—and—well, I'm a boy again and I can see Mother standing over the stove, and I can smell the hot cakes when I come in from school, and hear her say, 'Jimmie, take your hands out of that crock! No, you can't have but one. Well, two, but no more. Now take that plate over to Mis' Fisher and that one to Miss Corbin—'"
He was quiet again for a few moments; then, as if coming back to the world beside him, he said in his usual even tones:
"Shall we go into the library?"
And the guests did not laugh again.
Drusilla was neighborly in other ways besides that of sending cakes and cookies on her baking day. One day she heard that Mrs. Beaumont, who lived in the first house below her, was ill. "She has a bad cold," Miss Lee told her, "and they are afraid it might develop into pneumonia. But, between you and me, she's just bored to death and doesn't have enough to interest her."
As soon as her visitor left, Drusilla went upstairs, and came down with a little package in her hand and an old-fashioned sunbonnet on her head. She went out of the gate and down the road until she came to the great gates that guarded the home of the multi-millionaire who lived there.
She was told at the door that Mrs. Beaumont was not receiving, but she told the man to tell his mistress that she had something special for her and would not detain her but a moment. The man rather unwillingly took her message, and returning in a few moments conducted Drusilla into a luxurious bedroom, where a very beautiful woman was lying upon a chaise lounge, dressed in an elaborate peignoir, her hair covered by a marvelous creation that went by the name of boudoir cap. She languidly gave her hand to Drusilla.
"You want to see me?" she murmured in a low, languid voice. "Won't you please sit down? And excuse my appearance. I am not receiving—but—but—I thought I would seeyou."
Drusilla sat down.
"Now that's real nice of you to see me. I heard you was sick—had a bad cold; and I thought I'd come in and see if I couldn't help you. I brung some boneset. I nursed a lot when I was younger, and I found that boneset is the best thing in the world fer a cold. Jest make a tea of it and drink it hot. It's kind of bitter, but you can put milk and sugar in it if you want to—though, to my notion, that makes it worse. Then git right into bed and cover up and sweat. It's the best thing in the world fer a cold—jest sweat it out of you. If you should put a hot brick or a hot flatiron at your back and another at your feet, it'd help. By to-morrow you won't know you got a cold."
The woman's face was a study; but the doctor entered at that moment and saved her. She said:
"Dr. Hodman, this is Miss Doane, my nearest neighbor."
Drusilla shook his hand heartily.
"I'm real glad to see you. I've brung Mis' Beaumont some herbs. A little boneset. I told her to make a good strong cup o' tea of it, and drink it hot, then git into bed and cover up warm, and sweat, and by to-morrow she wouldn't know she had a cold."
The doctor looked from Drusilla to Mrs. Beaumont, hardly knowing what to say. This little old lady, with her sunbonnet and her boneset tea, was not the usual visitor he encountered in the homes of his fashionable patients.
"Yes," said Mrs. Beaumont, "and—and—Miss Doane was telling me that a hot brick—what was it you said, Miss Doane?"
"I was a tellin' her that a hot brick or a flatiron at her feet and another at the small of her back would help. It ain't comfortable jest at first, but she can have the hired girl wrap it in a piece o flannel, and after a while it feels real comfortin'. But I must be goin'. I see you're a lookin' at my bunnet, Mis' Beaumont. It don't look much like what you got on your head, but I work a lot in the garden, and if I don't have somethin' on my head my hair gets all frouzy. A hat don't seem to be the right thing to work in the garden with, and if I do wear one the sun burns the back of my neck when I stoop down; so I got me a bunnet, like I used to wear, and it makes me feel real to home. Good-by, good-by, doctor."
She turned to Mrs. Beaumont:
"Now, if the boneset tea don't do you no good, let me know. Perhaps your liver is teched a little and it makes you feel bad all over. I got some camomile leaves that's real good fer that. If you want any, I'll be real glad to bring 'em over."
She was gone.
The doctor looked at his patient and the patient looked at the doctor. Then Mrs. Beaumont put back her head and burst into a gale of laughter, in which the dignified doctor soon joined. They laughed and laughed, the woman wiping her tear-filled eyes. Finally, when she could stop long enough to talk, she said:
"Did you ever hear of anything so funny in all your life—a hot brick—or a hot flatiron"—a peal of laugher—"at my feet—another one at the small of my back—Oh, I shall die, I shall surely die!" And she went off into another paroxysm of laughter.
When the laughter ceased and the doctor returned to his professional manner, asking her how she felt and starting to feel her pulse, she said:
"Doctor, she's cured me. I haven't had a laugh like that for years. It's better than all your medicine. Boneset tea—" and again she was off.
Finally, when she had quieted, the doctor said:
"I don't know but that her boneset tea is as good as anything else. All you need is a little quiet. You seem better than you were yesterday."
"I tell you that I am well! All my system needed was a little shaking up, and Miss Doane has done it for me."
The doctor rose to go.
"I think that I shall take Miss Doane as a partner. Her herbs or her prescriptions seem to have a better effect than my medicines. Shall I come to-morrow?"
"Yes; this may not last. Come to-morrow if you are near, though I am sure I won't need you."
As the doctor's hand was on the door he turned:
"If I were you, Mrs. Beaumont, I'd send for those camomile leaves."
But with all her little acts of neighborliness, and her "baking day" and her attempts to find duties to fill the hours, time began to hang heavily upon the hands of active Drusilla. If she had been of a higher station in life she would have said that she was bored or was suffering from that general complaint of the rich—"enuyee."
Here Providence stepped in. One morning when she was dressing she heard a peculiar little wailing cry. She listened. The cry was repeated. She listened again, but could not locate the sound. Then, thinking she might be mistaken, she continued with her dressing; but again that piercing wail was borne to her ears. She opened her window and then she heard it distinctly—a baby's cry. She listened in amazement. There was no baby on the place except the gardener's, and his cottage was too far from the big house to have his children's wails heard in that place given over to aristocratic quiet. Drusilla tried to see around the comer of the house, but she could not; so she rang for Jeanne.
"Jane, I heard a baby cry. Go and find out where it is," she said.
Jeanne was gone a long time, it seemed to Drusilla; and then she returned, with big frightened eyes, followed by the butler carrying a large basket. He stopped at the door.
"Come in, James. What you standing there for? What you got?"
Just then the wailing cry came from the basket, and Drusilla dropped the brush in her hand.
"For the land's sake, what's in the basket? Come here!"
James gingerly deposited the basket upon a chair.
"It's a baby, ma'am—a live baby."
"Well, upon my soul! Of course it is! You wouldn't expect it to not be alive. Let's see it."
She went over to the basket and looked down at the lively little bundle that seemed to be protesting in its feeble way against the injustice of the world in leaving it at a chance doorstep. Drusilla looked at it admiringly.
"Why, ain't it cunning, the pore little thing! It's done up warm. How'd it get here?"
"I don't know, ma'am. It must 'a' been left early this morning after the gates was opened. I'll ask the gardeners if they saw any one come in."
"Never mind now, James. Here's a letter. It'll tell us all about it. Where are my glasses, Jane?"
Drusilla put on her glasses and read the inscription on the letter.
"Miss Drusilla Doane. Well, they know my name."
She tore open the envelope and read aloud:
"I read in the paper that you have no one and are alone and rich. My baby has no one but me, and I can't get work. Won't you take him? His name is John—that's all."
"JOHN'S MOTHER."
Drusilla pushed the glasses up on her forehead and used a slang expression that almost drew a smile from solemn James.
"Nowwhatdo you know about that!"
She looked at James as if he should have an answer, and he said:
"I'm sure, Miss Doane, I don't know anything about it at all."
Drusilla looked down at the baby in the basket, and again at the letter, not knowing what to do; but, the little wail again rising, she reached down to take the baby into her arms, and found it securely pinned into the basket.
"Poor little mother!" she said. "She didn't want you to get cold."
As she took out the safety-pins and lifted the baby into her arms, she dislodged a bottle of milk.
"Why, she thought of everything! She must 'a' loved you, little John, even though she left you on my doorstep."
The baby, a healthy little youngster about eight months old, blinked up at Drusilla in a friendly manner, then clutched her hair. Drusilla laughed, as she drew her head away.
"That's the first thing all babies make for, my hair. Bless his little heart, he's gettin' familiar already."
James interrupted.
"What'll I do with it, Miss Doane?"
Drusilla looked up from the baby.
"Do with what? The basket? Take it away."
"No, ma'am; I meantit"—pointing to the baby.
"James, it is not anit. It's ahe. But you're right, James; what'll we do with it?" And she looked down at the little body in her arms.
"Why—why—" stammered James, who plainly showed that disposing of babies left by chance at doorsteps was entirely out of the usual line of a well trained butler's duties, "I don't know, ma'am. It never happened before where I've served." Here he had an inspiration and his face cleared. "Perhaps we'd better send for Mr. Thornton."
Drusilla looked up at him in a relieved way.
"That's the first glimmer of sense you've ever showed, James; though what he knows about babies I don't see. I'm sure he never was one himself. Now I'll set down—this baby's heavy—and you go and telephone."
"What'll I tell him, ma'am?"
"Tell him? Why, tell him we've got a baby unexpected and we don't know what to do with it."
James almost smiled again.
"I'll break the news to him careful, ma'am," he said.
When he was gone Drusilla scrutinized the baby's hood and coat.
"Jane," she said, "his clothes is pretty—-his mother must 'a' made 'em; and his socks is knit, not bought ones."
She examined each article of his clothing as carefully as would a mother inspecting her firstborn's wardrobe.
"He's dressed real nice.... Did you get him?" as James entered the room. "What did he say?"
"I did not speak to him, Miss Doane, but to Miss Daphne. She acted rather—well—rather excited, and said she would be over immediately with her father."
"We'll wait in patience, I suppose. I'll lay this young man down. My arms must be a gettin' old because I feel him."
She laid the baby on the couch and he protested with legs and arms and voice against being again laid upon his back. Drusilla took him up and he was happy again.
"Well," laughed Drusilla, "I guess I've found somethin' to do with my hands."
The baby stared at Drusilla for a few moments; then his wails commenced again. Drusilla trotted him, but that did not stop his cries.
"Perhaps he is hungry, Miss Doane," Jeanne suggested.
"Give me that bottle."
Drusilla felt the bottle and found it cold.
"It's cold, James. Go warm some milk and scald the bottle."
James went away, his head held high, disapproval expressed in every line of his back. Within a few moments a motor was heard at the door and Daphne's young voice was calling:
"Can we come in, Miss Doane? Where is the baby?"
Daphne entered, interested and excited, followed by her father, stiff, erect, the correct lawyer troubled by unnecessary and petty affairs of the women world.
Daphne came to the baby, who stopped his wails long enough to stare at the new visitor with round, wondering eyes.
"Oh,isn'the a dear! How did you find him?"
Drusilla handed her the letter. "Read that, and then you'll know as much as me."
Daphne read the note out loud.
"Isn't it romantic, Father!" she exclaimed. "Just like you read about in books. Oh, look at James with the bottle!"
James looked neither to the right nor to the left but handed the bottle to Drusilla. She felt it to test its warmth and gave it to the squirming baby, who settled down into the hollow of her arm with a little gurgle of content. The four stood around the baby and watched it for a few moments in silence. Soon its lids began to droop and it was off to slumberland.
"What are you going to do with it, Miss Doane?" whispered Daphne.
"I'm sure I don't know. That's why I sent for your father."
"It's clearly a case for the police," Mr. Thornton said dryly. "I will telephone them."
Drusilla looked at him inquiringly.
"What did you say? Telephone the police? Why?"
"I will ask them to call and take the child in charge."
"Why, what's the baby done?"
"Nothing, of course; but they will understand how to dispose of it."
"What'll they do with it?"
"They will get into connection with the proper authorities, and if the mother cannot be found, they will have the child committed to some institution."
"Some institution. What kind of an institution?"
"An orphan asylum—a home for waifs of this kind."
Drusilla caught the word "home" and she sat up so suddenly that the bottle fell to the floor and the blue eyes opened and looked into Drusilla's face appealingly and the little wail arose again. Drusilla bent over and picked up the bottle, and when she arose her eyes were hard and two bright spots colored her wrinkled cheeks.
"You said 'home.' What do you mean? I don't like the word."
Mr. Thornton was plainly irritated.
"A home for foundlings, where the proper care will be given it."
"Yes, but how?" queried Drusilla. "What kind of care?"
Daphne interrupted her father, who was plainly trying to find words to explain the exact meaning of an orphan asylum.
"Oh, Father, that's horrid. It'll be put in with hundreds of other babies, all dressed alike, and all brought up on rules and bells and things—"
"I know now what your father means—an orphan asylum. Just the same thing as an old ladies' home, only backwards. No, I lived in one o' them and I know what it is and," she settled back in her chair, "my baby ain't goin' there."
"But," objected Mr. Thornton, looking helplessly at the obstinate face before him, "that is the only possible way to dispose of him."
"But think of his poor mother, how she'd feel if she read in the paper that he'd been put in a home. She could 'a' done that herself."
"She should have thought of that before leaving him," Mr. Thornton said dryly. "She should not have deserted the child, and does not deserve any consideration."
"Well, we all do things we oughtn't to do. Even you do, 'cause I can see, lookin' closely at you, that you oughtn't to drink so much coffee, but youdo; and the mother hadn't ought to havehadthe baby in the first place, which she did, and she oughtn't 'a' left it on my stoop, but it's done. Now can't you think of something else to do with it except send it to a home? Ugh, that word makes a pizen in my blood!"
Mr. Thornton clearly was exasperated that his very sensible advice was not acted upon immediately.
"I have told you the only thing to do, and we are wasting time. I must go into the city. James, telephone the police."
Drusilla sat up very erect.
"James, you'll do nothing of the kind! I've decided.I'lltake the baby."
"What!"said Mr. Thornton, his exasperated look changing to one of consternation. "What!" said Daphne in delight."Quoi!"said Jeanne. James did not speak, but he stopped on his way to the telephone and expressed his astonishment as well as a well trained servant may express astonishment at the actions of an employer.
Drusilla settled back in the chair and rocked back and forth with the sleeping baby in her arms, showing that she was enjoying the little explosive she had dropped in the midst of her family circle. There was silence for a few moments; then Mr. Thornton cleared his throat.
"I really don't believe I understood you, Miss Doane," he said.
Drusilla looked up at him with a twinkle in her eyes.
"I said in plain English that I'd take the baby."
Mr. Thornton looked at her, evidently at a loss for words to express his disapproval. Drusilla watched him, waiting for him to speak; and then, finding that he was silent, she said.
"Now you take that chair, and set down in front of me. Jane, go away. James, go downstairs. Now, Mr. Thornton, fix yourself real comfortable and we'll talk."
"But Miss Doane—"
"Now don'tbutme, Mr. Thornton, 'cause I'm goin' totalk. I ain't used my voice much sence I been here, and it's gettin' tired o' doin' nothin', jest like I am. Now I've done everything you told me to. I've made visits I didn't like, I've talked with women who come here who didn't like me, and I've tried hard to live up to this house and be a lady and do nothin', and have nothin' to look after and no one to do for and worry about, and nothin' to think of; and I'm tired of it. I've done somethin' all my life, and took care of some one. I nussed my mother for most forty years, then I took care of the sick in all our county, and I looked after the old ladies in the home who wasn't able to look after themselves and now I can't jestset. I'm too old to learn new ways, and I got to have something or some one to do for, and the good Lord knowed I was gettin' restless and sent this here baby. Now—no, wait a minute—I ain't through yet," as Mr. Thornton tried to interrupt her. "I'm goin' to have my say, then your turn'll come, though it won't do you much good, as my mind is made up, and when a woman's mind is made up it's jest as foolish to try to change it as it is to try to set a hen before she begins to cluck."
She stopped a moment and looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms.
"I ain't a-thinkin' of myself alone and jest how good it'll be for me, but I'm a-thinkin' of the baby and I want to give him a chance like other babies."
"But," said Mr. Thornton, "it's quite impossible! A home for such as he is the proper place for him."
"Don't say that wordhometo me. Mr. Thornton, I hate the word. I've et charity bread and it's bitter, and charity milk'd be the same."
Mr. Thornton threw out his hands with an exasperated gesture.
"But it is impossible, I tell you, quite impossible!"
"Why impossible?" asked Drusilla. "Why, ain't the house big enough?"
"But my late client, Mr. Elias Doane—"
"Have you forgot the letter he wrote me: 'Spend the money your own way, Drusilla.'"
"But he certainly did not mean—"
"How do you know what he meant? He said spend it, and I ain't spent nothin' yet except on some foolish clothes. First thing I know I might die, then it wouldn't be spent, and I know I'd pass my days worryin' St. Peter to find out what had become of it."
Mr. Thornton threw up his hands again.
"Well, I don't know what to say more than I have said," he declared. "Have you decided on its disposition?"
Drusilla, seeing that the lawyer was surrendering, said quite meekly:
"I ain't figured out what is to be done jest now—"
Here Daphne came to her rescue.
"Why don't you give him to the gardener's wife until you find out what to do?"
Drusilla reached over and patted Daphne's hand.
"Daphne, there's some sense under them curls. Your father ought to take you in business with him. That's what we'll do. She has four already, but there's always room in a house where there's babies for one more. Send for her."
"Should it not be medically examined before being placed with other children?" Mr. Thornton suggested.
"Medically examined, stuff and nonsense! Why?"
"A child left in the manner in which this infant was left may come from extremely unsanitary surroundings, and may carry disease with it. It is more than probable."
"Disease nothin'!" said Drusilla, looking down at the baby. "I never saw a healthier child."
At the word medical Daphne rose and went to a part of the room where she could be seen by Drusilla and not by her father, and when Drusilla looked up from inspecting the baby she caught sight of Daphne, who seemed to be staring at her fixedly with a meaning in her eye.
Mr. Thornton, still intent upon the one subject where he saw a chance of having his advice acted upon, and consequently of retaining at least a semblance of authority, said: "I think a doctor should be sent for and the child medically examined."
Drusilla commenced: "It's nonsense. There ain't—" but here she again caught Daphne's eye and saw a slight movement of the head which seemed to mean, "Say yes." Drusilla looked at her a moment uncomprehendingly; then, the nod being repeated more vigorously, she said:
"Well—well—yes, if you believe it should be done, though for the life of me I don't see no sense in it. Who'll I send for?"
"I would suggest Dr. Rathman. He is—"
"Oh, Father!" interrupted Daphne. "He is so old and slow. He'dneverget here. Why don't you ask Dr. Eaton? He lives near here."
Mr. Thornton pursed up his lips.
"He is far too young. He has not the experience of Dr. Rathman."
"But, Father, the baby isn't dying."
Drusilla's shrewd old eyes looked keenly at Daphne's flushed face, and she laughed.
"I think Daphne is right. A young doctor's better. I don't think old doctors have a hand with babies."
"But Dr. Eaton is very young," remonstrated Mr. Thornton.
"The younger the better, then perhaps he ain't forgot how the stomach-ache feels himself. You telephone him, Daphne."
"No," said Daphne, a little embarrassed. "I think James had better do that. Oh, here's Mrs. Donald."
The baby was given into the motherly arms of Mrs. Donald; and Mr. Thornton drew on his gloves and said very coldly, feeling that he had lost ground on every point, "Come, Daphne; we will go. When you have decided upon the final disposition of the child, you may, as always, command my services, Miss Doane. Come, Daphne."
"But, Father, I'll stay a while with Miss Doane."
"No, Daphne; you will go with me. Your mother needs you."
Daphne cast an imploring glance at Drusilla.
"Can't Daphne stay a while? I'd like to talk with her," Drusilla said.
"No," said her father, with a finality in his tone that caused Daphne to go with him meekly, if unwillingly; "Daphne must return with me."
Drusilla looked at the set face a moment, and then at the rebellious face of Daphne, and her own face broke into the tiny wrinkles that accompanied her smiles.
"Oh, I see! Well, never mind, child. There are lots of other days and this baby may need the services of a doctor often." And she accompanied them to the hall with a little light of understanding in her eyes as she watched Daphne's pouting face disappear in the motor.
The young doctor came. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young athlete, not yet thirty, and his merry blue eyes and his cheery voice won Drusilla at once. They went to the gardener's cottage and inspected the baby. The doctor patted it and tickled it and tossed it in his arms until it was all gurgles of delight.
"He's as sound as a dollar, Miss Doane," he said. "Couldn't be in better condition. He could run a Marathon this minute if his legs were long enough."
Drusilla watched the proceedings with twinkling eyes.
"Well, that's a new way to medically examine an ailin' child," she commented; "but it seems to work."
"Ailing! He isn't ailing, Miss Doane. If he keeps this fit Mrs. Donald won't have to send for me often."
"That's what I told Mr. Thornton; but he said I must have you."
Dr. Eaton stopped tossing the baby and looked at Miss Doane in astonishment.
"Are you telling me that Mr. Thornton asked you to send for me?"
"Well," and Drusilla laughed, "he didn't exactly mention your name, but he said I should have a doctor for the baby."
"I thought Mr. Thornton wasn't recommending me. Didn't he mention Dr. Rathman?"
"Perhaps he did, but Miss Daphne seemed to feel that he was too old to answer a hurry call like this, so we sort of compromised, at least Daphne and me did, on you."
There was a slight flush on the young man's face that did not miss the keen eyes of Drusilla.
"Oh," he said, "I see." And then, in an attempt to change the subject: "Is this a new baby of Donald's? I haven't seen him around here before."
"No," said Drusilla; "this ismybaby."
Dr. Eaton looked at her, and then laughed with her.
"Now what should I say, Miss Doane—many happy returns of the day, or—"
"You jest say, Dr. Eaton, 'Thisisa fine baby.' But come up to the house and have breakfast with me. I clean forgot it. And we'll talk it all over."
They went slowly up the graveled walk to the breakfast-room, and over the coffee and the cakes Drusilla explained the unexpected arrival of the baby.
"Now you know as much about it as I do," she ended; "and I suppose you'll say with Mr. Thornton that I'm a foolish old woman to say I'll take it. But it won't do you no good. I'm goin' to have my way, and I've found out in the last few weeks that I can get it, and I'm afraid it's spoilin' me. I'm goin' to keep the baby."