After sitting for about half an hour after supper, he rose, with
an uncertain sort of smile, and said he supposed he must be moving
on,--asking, at the same time, how far it was to the tavern over the
ridge.

"Just wait one moment, if you please," said Euphemia. And she beckoned
me out of the room.

"Don't you think," said she, "that we could keep him all night? There's
no moon, and it would be a fearful dark walk, I know, to the other side
of the mountain. There is a room upstairs that I can fix for him in ten
minutes, and I know he's honest."

"How do you know it?" I asked.

"Well, because he wears such curious-colored clothes. No criminal would
ever wear such clothes. He could never pass unnoticed anywhere; and
being probably the only person in the world who dressed that way, he
could always be detected."

"You are doubtless correct," I replied. "Let us keep him."

When we told the good man that he could stay all night, he was extremely
obliged to us, and went to bed quite early. After we had fastened the
house and had gone to our room, my wife said to me,

"Where is your pistol?"

I produced it.

"Well," said she, "I think you ought to have it where you can get at
it."

"Why so?" I asked. "You generally want me to keep it out of sight and
reach."

"Yes; but when there is a strange man in the house we ought to take
extra precautions."

"But this man you say is honest," I replied. "If he committed a crime he
could not escape,--his appearance is so peculiar."

"But that wouldn't do us any good, if we were both murdered," said
Euphemia, pulling a chair up to my side of the bed, and laying the
pistol carefully thereon, with the muzzle toward the bed.

We were not murdered, and we had a very pleasant breakfast with the
artist, who told us more anecdotes of his life in Mexico and other
places. When, after breakfast, he shut up his valise, preparatory to
starting away, we felt really sorry. When he was ready to go, he asked
for his bill.

"Oh! There is no bill," I exclaimed. "We have no idea of charging you
anything. We don't really keep a hotel, as I told you."

"If I had known that," said he, looking very grave, "I would not have
stayed. There is no reason why you should give me food and lodgings, and
I would not, and did not, ask it. I am able to pay for such things, and
I wish to do so."

We argued with him for some time, speaking of the habits of country
people and so on, but he would not be convinced. He had asked for
accommodation expecting to pay for it, and would not be content until he
had done so.

"Well," said Euphemia, "we are not keeping this house for profit, and
you can't force us to make anything out of you. If you will be satisfied
to pay us just what it cost us to entertain you, I suppose we shall have
to let you do that. Take a seat for a minute, and I will make out your
bill."

So the artist and I sat down and talked of various matters, while
my wife got out her traveling stationery-box, and sat down to the
dining-table to make out the bill. After a long, long time, as it
appeared to me, I said:

"My dear, if the amount of that bill is at all proportioned to the
length of time it takes to make it out, I think our friend here will
wish he had never said anything about it."

"It's nearly done," said she, without raising her head, and, in about
ten or fifteen minutes more, she rose and presented the bill to our
guest. As I noticed that he seemed somewhat surprised at it, I asked him
to let me look over it with him. The bill, of which I have a copy, read
as follows:


July 12th, 187- ARTIST,

   To the S. and S. Hotel and F. and M. House.

   To 1/3 one supper, July 11th, which supper consisted of:

   1/14 lb. coffee, at 35 cts.               2 cts.

     "  "   sugar,  "  14  "                 1  "

    1/6 qt. milk,   "   6  "                 1  "

    1/2 loaf bread  "   6  "                 3  "

    1/8 lb. butter  "  25  "              3 1/8 "

    1/2 "  bacon    "  25  "             12 1/2 "

   1/16 pk. potatoes at 60 cts. per bush  15/16 "

    1/2 pt. hominy at 6 cts                   3 "
                                         --------
                                         27 1/16

                               1/3 of total      09 1/48 cts.

   To 1/3 one breakfast, July 12th (same as above, with exception of eggs
   instead of bacon, and with hominy omitted),
                                         --------
                                          24 1/6

                                 1/3 total       08 1/48  "

   To rent of one room and furniture, for one night, in furnished house of
   fifteen rooms at $6.00 per week for whole house 05 3/8 "
                                                ------------
                               Amount due       22 17/24 cts.


The worthy artist burst out laughing when he read this bill, and so did
I.

"You needn't laugh," said Euphemia, reddening a little. "That is exactly
what your entertainment cost, and we do not intend to take a cent more.
We get things here in such small quantities that I can tell quite easily
what a meal costs us, and I have calculated that bill very carefully."

"So I should think, madam," said the artist, "but it is not quite right.
You have charged nothing for your trouble and services."

"No," said my wife, "for I took no additional trouble to get your meals.
What I did, I should have done if you had not come. To be sure I
did spend a few minutes preparing your room. I will charge you seven
twenty-fourths of a cent for that, thus making your bill twenty-three
cents--even money."

"I cannot gainsay reasoning like yours, madam," he said, and he took
a quarter from a very fat old pocket-book, and handed it to her. She
gravely gave him two cents change, and then taking the bill, receipted
it, and handed it back to him.

We were sorry to part with our guest, for he was evidently a good
fellow. I walked with him a little way up the road, and got him to let
me copy his bill in my memorandum-book. The original, he said, he would
always keep.

A day or two after the artist's departure, we were standing on the front
piazza. We had had a late breakfast--consequent upon a long tramp the
day before--and had come out to see what sort of a day it was likely
to be. We had hardly made up our minds on the subject when the morning
stage came up at full speed and stopped at our gate.

"Hello!" cried the driver. He was not our driver. He was a tall man in
high boots, and had a great reputation as a manager of horses--so Danny
Carson told me afterward. There were two drivers on the line, and each
of them made one trip a day, going up one day in the afternoon, and down
the next day in the morning.

I went out to see what this driver wanted.

"Can't you give my passengers breakfast?" he asked.

"Why, no!" I exclaimed, looking at the stage loaded inside and out.
"This isn't a tavern. We couldn't get breakfast for a stage-load of
people."

"What have you got a sign up fur, then?" roared the driver, getting red
in the face.

"That's so," cried two or three men from the top of the stage. "If it
aint a tavern, what's that sign doin' there?"

I saw I must do something. I stepped up close to the stage and looked in
and up.

"Are there any sailors in this stage?" I said. There was no response.
"Any soldiers? Any farmers or mechanics?"

At the latter question I trembled, but fortunately no one answered.

"Then," said I, "you have no right to ask to be accommodated; for, as
you may see from the sign, our house is only for soldiers, sailors,
farmers, and mechanics."

"And besides," cried Euphemia from the piazza, "we haven't anything to
give you for breakfast."

The people in and on the stage grumbled a good deal at this, and looked
as if they were both disappointed and hungry, while the driver ripped
out an oath, which, had he thrown it across a creek, would soon have
made a good-sized millpond.

He gathered up his reins and turned a sinister look on me.

"I'll be even with you, yit," he cried as he dashed off.

In the afternoon Mrs. Carson came up and told us that the stage had
stopped there, and that she had managed to give the passengers some
coffee, bread and butter and ham and eggs, though they had had to
wait their turns for cups and plates. It appeared that the driver had
quarreled with the Lowry people that morning because the breakfast was
behindhand and he was kept waiting. So he told his passengers that there
was another tavern, a few miles down the road, and that he would take
them there to breakfast.

"He's an awful ugly man, that he is," said Mrs. Carson, "an' he'd better
'a' stayed at Lowry's, fur he had to wait a good sight longer, after
all, as it turned out. But he's dreadful mad at you, an' says he'll
bring ye farmers, an' soldiers, and sailors, an' mechanics, if
that's what ye want. I 'spect he'll do his best to git a load of them
particular people an' drop 'em at yer door. I'd take down that sign, ef
I was you. Not that me an' Danny minds, fur we're glad to git a stage to
feed, an' ef you've any single man that wants lodgin' we've fixed up a
room and kin keep him overnight."

Notwithstanding this warning, Euphemia and I decided not to take in our
sign. We were not to be frightened by a stage-driver. The next day our
own driver passed us on the road as he was going down.

"So ye're pertickler about the people ye take in, are ye?" said he,
smiling. "That's all right, but ye made Bill awful mad."

It was quite late on a Monday afternoon that Bill stopped at our house
again. He did not call out this time. He simply drew up, and a man with
a big black valise clambered down from the top of the stage. Then Bill
shouted to me as I walked down to the gate, looking rather angry I
suppose:

"I was agoin' to git ye a whole stage-load, to stay all night, but that
one'll do ye, I reckon. Ha, ha!" And off he went, probably fearing that
I would throw his passenger up on the top of the stage again.

The new-comer entered the gate. He was a dark man, with black hair and
black whiskers and mustache, and black eyes. He wore clothes that had
been black, but which were now toned down by a good deal of dust, and,
as I have said, he carried a black valise.

"Why did you stop here?" said I, rather inhospitably. "Don't you know
that we do not accommodate--"

"Yes, I know," he said, walking up on the piazza and setting down his
valise, "that you only take soldiers, sailors, farmers, and mechanics at
this house. I have been told all about it, and if I had not thoroughly
understood the matter I should not have thought of such a thing as
stopping here. If you will sit down for a few moments I will explain."
Saying this, he took a seat on a bench by the door, but Euphemia and I
continued to stand.

"I am," he continued, "a soldier, a sailor, a farmer, and a mechanic.
Do not doubt my word; I will prove it to you in two minutes. When but
seventeen years of age, circumstances compelled me to take charge of a
farm in New Hampshire, and I kept up that farm until I was twenty-five.
During this time I built several barns, wagon-houses, and edifices of
the sort on my place, and, becoming expert in this branch of mechanical
art, I was much sought after by the neighboring farmers, who employed
me to do similar work for them. In time I found this new business so
profitable that I gave up farming altogether. But certain unfortunate
speculations threw me on my back, and finally, having gone from bad to
worse, I found myself in Boston, where, in sheer desperation, I went
on board a coasting vessel as landsman. I remained on this vessel for
nearly a year, but it did not suit me. I was often sick, and did not
like the work. I left the vessel at one of the Southern ports, and
it was not long after she sailed that, finding myself utterly without
means, I enlisted as a soldier. I remained in the army for some years,
and was finally honorably discharged. So you see that what I said was
true. I belong to each and all of these businesses and professions. And
now that I have satisfied you on this point, let me show you a book for
which I have the agency in this country." He stooped down, opened his
valise, and took out a good-sized volume. "This book," said he, "is the
'Flora and Fauna of Carthage County;' it is written by one of the first
scientific men of the country, and gives you a description, with
an authentic wood-cut, of each of the plants and animals of the
county--indigenous or naturalized. Owing to peculiar advantages enjoyed
by our firm, we are enabled to put this book at the very low price of
three dollars and seventy-five cents. It is sold by subscription only,
and should be on the center-table in every parlor in this county. If you
will glance over this book, sir, you will find it as interesting as a
novel, and as useful as an encyclopaedia--"

"I don't want the book," I said, "and I don't care to look at it."

"But if you were to look at it you would want it, I'm sure."

"That's a good reason for not looking at it, then," I answered. "If you
came to get us to subscribe for that book we need not take up any more
of your time, for we shall not subscribe."

"Oh, I did not come for that alone," he said. "I shall stay here
to-night and start out in the morning to work up the neighborhood. If
you would like this book--and I'm sure you have only to look at it to do
that--you can deduct the amount of my bill from the subscription price,
and--"

"What did you say you charged for this book?" asked Euphemia, stepping
forward and picking up the volume.

"Three seventy-five is the subscription price, ma'am, but that book is
not for sale. That is merely a sample. If you put your name down on
my list you will be served with your book in two weeks. As I told your
husband, it will come very cheap to you, because you can deduct what you
charge me for supper, lodging, and breakfast."

"Indeed!" said my wife, and then she remarked that she must go in the
house and get supper.

"When will supper be ready?" the man asked, as she passed him.

At first she did not answer him, but then she called back:

"In about half an hour."

"Good," said the man; "but I wish it was ready now. And now, sir, if you
would just glance over this book, while we are waiting for supper--"

I cut him very short and went out into the road. I walked up and down in
front of the house, in a bad humor. I could not bear to think of my wife
getting supper for this fellow, who was striding about on the piazza,
as if he was very hungry and very impatient. Just as I returned to the
house, the bell rang from within.

"Joyful sound!" said the man, and in he marched. I followed close behind
him. On one end of the table, in the kitchen, supper was set for one
person, and, as the man entered, Euphemia motioned him to the table. The
supper looked like a remarkably good one. A cup of coffee smoked by the
side of the plate; there was ham and eggs and a small omelette; there
were fried potatoes, some fresh radishes, a plate of hot biscuit, and
some preserves. The man's eyes sparkled.

"I am sorry," said he, "that I am to eat alone, for I hoped to have your
good company; but, if this plan suits you, it suits me," and he drew up
a chair.

"Stop!" said Euphemia, advancing between him and the table. "You are not
to eat that. This is a sample supper. If you order a supper like it, one
will be served to you in two weeks."

At this I burst into a roar of laughter; my wife stood pale and
determined, and the man drew back, looking first at one of us, and then
at the other.

"Am I to understand--?" he said.

"Yes," I interrupted, "you are. There is nothing more to be said on this
subject. You may go now. You came here to annoy us, knowing that we did
not entertain travelers, and now you see what you have made by it," and
I opened the door.

The man evidently thought that a reply was not necessary, and he walked
out without a word. Taking up his valise, which he had put in the hall,
he asked if there was any public-house near by.

"No," I said; "but there is a farm-house a short distance down the road,
where they will be glad to have you." And down the road he went to Mrs.
Carson's. I am sorry to say that he sold her a "Flora and Fauna" before
he went to bed that night.

We were much amused at the termination of this affair, and I became, if
possible, a still greater admirer of Euphemia's talents for management.
But we both agreed that it would not do to keep up the sign any longer.
We could not tell when the irate driver might not pounce down upon us
with a customer.

"But I hate to take it down," said Euphemia; "it looks so much like a
surrender."

"Do not trouble yourself," said I. "I have an idea."

The next morning I went down to Danny Carson's little shop,--he was
a wheelwright as well as a farmer,--and I got from him two pots of
paint--one black and one white--and some brushes. I took down our sign,
and painted out the old lettering, and, instead of it, I painted, in
bold and somewhat regular characters, new names for our tavern.

On one side of the sign I painted:


     "SOAP-MAKER'S
         AND
     BOOK-BINDER'S
        HOTEL."


And on the other side:


     "UPHOLSTERERS'
          AND
       DENTISTS'
        HOUSE."


"Now then," I said, "I don't believe any of those people will be
traveling along the road while we are here, or, at any rate, they won't
want to stop."

We admired this sign very much, and sat on the piazza, that afternoon,
to see how it would strike Bill, as he passed by. It seemed to strike
him pretty hard, for he gazed with all his eyes at one side of it, as he
approached, and then, as he passed it, he actually pulled up to read the
other side.

"All right!" he called out, as he drove off. "All right! All right!"

Euphemia didn't like the way he said "all right." It seemed to her, she
said, as if he intended to do something which would be all right for
him, but not at all so for us. I saw she was nervous about it, for that
evening she began to ask me questions about the traveling propensities
of soap-makers, upholsterers, and dentists.

"Do not think anything more about that, my dear," I said. "I will take
the sign down in the morning. We are here to enjoy ourselves, and not to
be worried."

"And yet," said she, "it would worry me to think that that driver
frightened us into taking down the sign. I tell you what I wish you
would do. Paint out those names, and let me make a sign. Then I promise
you I will not be worried."

The next day, therefore, I took down the sign and painted out my
inscriptions. It was a good deal of trouble, for my letters were
fresh, but it was a rainy day, and I had plenty of time, and succeeded
tolerably well. Then I gave Euphemia the black-paint pot and the freedom
of the sign.

I went down to the creek to try a little fishing in wet weather, and
when I returned the new sign was done. On one side it read:


     FLIES'
      AND
     WASPS'
     HOTEL.


On the other:


  HUNDRED-LEGGERS'
       AND
     RED-ANTS'
      HOUSE.


"You see," said euphemia, "if any individuals mentioned thereon apply
for accommodation, we can say we are full."

This sign hung triumphantly for several days, when one morning, just as
we had finished breakfast, we were surprised to hear the stage stop at
the door, and before we could go out to see who had arrived, into the
room came our own stage-driver, as we used to call him. He had actually
left his team to come and see us.

"I just thought I'd stop an' tell ye," said he, "that ef ye don't look
out, Bill'll get ye inter trouble. He's bound to git the best o' ye, an'
I heared this mornin', at Lowry's, that he's agoin' to bring the county
clerk up here to-morrow, to see about yer license fur keepin' a hotel.
He says ye keep changin' yer signs, but that don't differ to him, for
he kin prove ye've kept travelers overnight, an' ef ye haven't got no
license he'll make the county clerk come down on ye heavy, I'm sure o'
that, fur I know Bill. An' so, I thought I'd stop an' tell ye."

I thanked him, and admitted that this was a rather serious view of the
case. Euphemia pondered a moment. Then said she:

"I don't see why we should stay here any longer. It's going to rain
again, and our vacation is up to-morrow, anyway. Could you wait a little
while, while we pack up?" she said to the driver.

"Oh yes!" he replied. "I kin wait, as well as not. I've only got one
passenger, an' he's on top, a-holdin' the horses. He aint in any hurry,
I know, an' I'm ahead o' time."

In less than twenty minutes we had packed our trunk, locked up the
house, and were in the stage, and, as we drove away, we cast a last
admiring look at Euphemia's sign, slowly swinging in the wind. I would
much like to know if it is swinging there yet. I feel certain there has
been no lack of custom.

We stopped at Mrs. Carson's, paid her what we owed her, and engaged her
to go up to the tavern and put things in order. She was very sorry we
were going, but hoped we would come back again some other summer. We
said that it was quite possible that we might do so; but that, next
time, we did not think we would try to have a tavern of our own.



CHAPTER XIX. THE BABY AT RUDDER GRANGE.


For some reason, not altogether understood by me, there seemed to be a
continued series of new developments at our home. I had supposed, when
the events spoken of in the last chapter had settled down to their
proper places in our little history, that our life would flow on in
an even, commonplace way, with few or no incidents worthy of being
recorded. But this did not prove to be the case. After a time, the
uniformity and quiet of our existence was considerably disturbed.

This disturbance was caused by a baby, not a rude, imperious baby, but
a child who was generally of a quiet and orderly turn of mind. But it
disarranged all our plans; all our habits; all the ordinary disposition
of things.

It was in the summer-time, during my vacation, that it began to exert
its full influence upon us. A more unfortunate season could not have
been selected. At first, I may say that it did not exert its full
influence upon me. I was away, during the day, and, in the evening, its
influence was not exerted, to any great extent, upon anybody. As I have
said, its habits were exceedingly orderly. But, during my vacation, the
things came to pass which have made this chapter necessary.

I did not intend taking a trip. As in a former vacation, I proposed
staying at home and enjoying those delights of the country which my
business in town did not allow me to enjoy in the working weeks and
months of the year. I had no intention of camping out, or of doing
anything of that kind, but many were the trips, rides, and excursions I
had planned.

I found, however, that if I enjoyed myself in this wise, I must do it,
for the most part, alone. It was not that Euphemia could not go with
me--there was really nothing to prevent--it was simply that she had
lost, for the time, her interest in everything except that baby.

She wanted me to be happy, to amuse myself, to take exercise, to do
whatever I thought was pleasant, but she, herself, was so much engrossed
with the child, that she was often ignorant of what I intended to do, or
had done. She thought she was listening to what I said to her, but, in
reality, she was occupied, mind and body, with the baby, or listening
for some sound which should indicate that she ought to go and be
occupied with it.

I would often say to her: "Why can't you let Pomona attend to it? You
surely need not give up your whole time and your whole mind to the
child."

But she would always answer that Pomona had a great many things to do,
and that she couldn't, at all times, attend to the baby. Suppose, for
instance, that she should be at the barn.

I once suggested that a nurse should be procured, but at this she
laughed.

"There is very little to do," she said, "and I really like to do it."

"Yes," said I, "but you spend so much of your time in thinking how glad
you will be to do that little, when it is to be done, that you can't
give me any attention, at all."

"Now you have no cause to say that," she exclaimed. "You know very
well--, there!" and away she ran. It had just begun to cry!

Naturally, I was getting tired of this. I could never begin a sentence
and feel sure that I would be allowed to finish it. Nothing was
important enough to delay attention to an infantile whimper.

Jonas, too, was in a state of unrest. He was obliged to wear his good
clothes, a great part of the time, for he was continually going on
errands to the village, and these errands were so important that they
took precedence of everything else. It gave me a melancholy sort of
pleasure, sometimes, to do Jonas's work when he was thus sent away.

I asked him, one day, how he liked it all?

"Well," said he, reflectively, "I can't say as I understand it, exactly.
It does seem queer to me that such a little thing should take up pretty
nigh all the time of three people. I suppose, after a while," this he
said with a grave smile, "that you may be wanting to turn in and help."
I did not make any answer to this, for Jonas was, at that moment,
summoned to the house, but it gave me an idea. In fact, it gave me two
ideas.

The first was that Jonas's remark was not entirely respectful. He was my
hired man, but he was a very respectable man, and an American man, and
therefore might sometimes be expected to say things which a foreigner,
not known to be respectable, would not think of saying, if he wished
to keep his place. The fact that Jonas had always been very careful to
treat me with much civility, caused this remark to make more impression
on me. I felt that he had, in a measure, reason for it.

The other idea was one which grew and developed in my mind until I
afterward formed a plan upon it. I determined, however, before I carried
out my plan, to again try to reason with Euphemia.

"If it was our own baby," I said, "or even the child of one of us, by a
former marriage, it would be a different thing; but to give yourself
up so entirely to Pomona's baby, seems, to me, unreasonable. Indeed, I
never heard of any case exactly like it. It is reversing all the usages
of society for the mistress to take care of the servant's baby."

"The usages of society are not worth much, sometimes," said Euphemia,
"and you must remember that Pomona is a very different kind of a
person from an ordinary servant. She is much more like a member of the
family--I can't exactly explain what kind of a member, but I understand
it myself. She has very much improved since she has been married, and
you know, yourself, how quiet and--and, nice she is, and as for the
baby, it's just as good and pretty as any baby, and it may grow up to
be better than any of us. Some of our presidents have sprung from lowly
parents."

"But this one is a girl," I said.

"Well then," replied Euphemia, "she may be a president's wife."

"Another thing," I remarked, "I don't believe Jonas and Pomona like your
keeping their baby so much to yourself."

"Nonsense!" said Euphemia, "a girl in Pomona's position couldn't help
being glad to have a lady take an interest in her baby, and help bring
it up. And as for Jonas, he would be a cruel man if he wasn't pleased
and grateful to have his wife relieved of so much trouble. Pomona!
is that you? You can bring it here, now, if you want to get at your
clear-starching."

I don't believe that Pomona hankered after clear-starching, but she
brought the baby and I went away. I could not see any hope ahead. Of
course, in time, it would grow up, but then it couldn't grow up during
my vacation.

Then it was that I determined to carry out my plan.

I went to the stable and harnessed the horse to the little carriage.
Jonas was not there, and I had fallen out of the habit of calling him.
I drove slowly through the yard and out of the gate. No one called to me
or asked where I was going. How different this was from the old times!
Then, some one would not have failed to know where I was going, and,
in all probability, she would have gone with me. But now I drove away,
quietly and undisturbed.

About three miles from our house was a settlement known as New Dublin.
It was a cluster of poor and doleful houses, inhabited entirely by Irish
people, whose dirt and poverty seemed to make them very contented and
happy. The men were generally away, at their work, during the day, but
there was never any difficulty in finding some one at home, no matter at
what house one called. I was acquainted with one of the matrons of this
locality, a Mrs. Duffy, who had occasionally undertaken some odd jobs at
our house, and to her I made a visit.

She was glad to see me, and wiped off a chair for me.

"Mrs. Duffy," said I, "I want to rent a baby."

At first, the good woman could not understand me, but when I made plain
to her that I wished for a short time, to obtain the exclusive use and
control of a baby, for which I was willing to pay a liberal rental, she
burst into long and violent laughter. It seemed to her like a person
coming into the country to purchase weeds. Weeds and children were so
abundant in New Dublin. But she gradually began to see that I was in
earnest, and as she knew I was a trusty person, and somewhat noted
for the care I took of my live stock, she was perfectly willing to
accommodate me, but feared she had nothing on hand of the age I desired.

"Me childther are all agoin' about," she said. "Ye kin see a poile uv
'em out yon, in the road, an' there's more uv 'em on the fince. But
ye nade have no fear about gittin' wan. There's sthacks of 'em in the
place. I'll jist run over to Mrs. Hogan's, wid ye. She's got sixteen or
siventeen, mostly small, for Hogan brought four or five wid him when he
married her, an' she'll be glad to rint wan uv 'em." So, throwing her
apron over her head, she accompanied me to Mrs. Hogan's.

That lady was washing, but she cheerfully stopped her work while Mrs.
Duffy took her to one side and explained my errand. Mrs. Hogan did not
appear to be able to understand why I wanted a baby-especially for so
limited a period,--but probably concluded that if I would take good care
of it and would pay well for it, the matter was my own affair, for
she soon came and said, that if I wanted a baby, I'd come to the right
place. Then she began to consider what one she would let me have. I
insisted on a young one--there was already a little baby at our house,
and the folks there would know how to manage it.

"Oh, ye want it fer coompany for the ither one, is that it?" said Mrs.
Hogan, a new light breaking in upon her. "An' that's a good plan, sure.
It must be dridful lownly in a house wid ownly wan baby. Now there's
one--Polly--would she do?"

"Why, she can run," I said. "I don't want one that can run."

"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Hogan, with a sigh, "they all begin to run, very
airly. Now Polly isn't owld, at all, at all."

"I can see that," said I, "but I want one that you can put in a
cradle--one that will have to stay there, when you put it in."

It was plain that Mrs. Hogan's present stock did not contain exactly
what I wanted, and directly Mrs. Duffy exclaimed! "There's Mary
McCann--an' roight across the way!"

Mrs. Hogan said "Yis, sure," and we all went over to a little house,
opposite.

"Now, thin," said Mrs. Duffy, entering the house, and proudly drawing a
small coverlid from a little box-bed in a corner, "what do you think of
that?"

"Why, there are two of them," I exclaimed.

"To be sure," said Mrs. Duffy. "They're tweens. There's always two uv
em, when they're tweens. An' they're young enough."

"Yes," said I, doubtfully, "but I couldn't take both. Do you think their
mother would rent one of them?"

The women shook their heads. "Ye see, sir," said Mrs. Hogan, "Mary
McCann isn't here, bein' gone out to a wash, but she ownly has four or
foive childther, an' she aint much used to 'em yit, an' I kin spake fer
her that she'd niver siparate a pair o' tweens. When she gits a dozen
hersilf, and marries a widow jintleman wid a lot uv his own, she'll
be glad enough to be lettin' ye have yer pick, to take wan uv 'em fer
coompany to yer own baby, at foive dollars a week. Moind that."

I visited several houses after this, still in company with Mrs. Hogan
and Mrs. Duffy, and finally secured a youngish infant, who, having been
left motherless, had become what Mrs. Duffy called a "bottle-baby," and
was in charge of a neighboring aunt. It seemed strange that this child,
so eminently adapted to purposes of rental, was not offered to me, at
first, but I suppose the Irish ladies, who had the matter in charge,
wanted to benefit themselves, or some of their near friends, before
giving the general public of New Dublin a chance.

The child suited me very well, and I agreed to take it for as many days
as I might happen to want it, but to pay by the week, in advance. It was
a boy, with a suggestion of orange-red bloom all over its head, and what
looked, to me, like freckles on its cheeks; while its little nose turned
up, even more than those of babies generally turn--above a very long
upper lip. His eyes were blue and twinkling, and he had the very mouth
"fer a leetle poipe," as Mrs. Hogan admiringly remarked.

He was hastily prepared for his trip, and when I had arranged the
necessary business matters with his aunt, and had assured her that she
could come to see him whenever she liked, I got into the carriage, and
having spread the lap-robe over my knees, the baby, carefully wrapped in
a little shawl, was laid in my lap. Then his bottle, freshly filled, for
he might need a drink on the way, was tucked between the cushions on the
seat beside me, and taking the lines in my left hand, while I steadied
my charge with the other, I prepared to drive away.

"What's his name?" I asked.

"It's Pat," said his aunt, "afther his dad, who's away in the moines."

"But ye kin call him onything ye bike," Mrs. Duffy remarked, "fer he
don't ansther to his name yit."

"Pat will do very well," I said, as I bade the good women farewell,
and carefully guided the horse through the swarms of youngsters who had
gathered around the carriage.



CHAPTER XX. THE OTHER BABY AT RUDDER GRANGE.


I drove slowly home, and little Pat lay very quiet, looking up steadily
at me with his twinkling blue eyes. For a time, everything went very
well, but happening to look up, I saw in the distance a carriage
approaching. It was an open barouche, and I knew it belonged to a family
of our acquaintance, in the village, and that it usually contained
ladies.

Quick as thought, I rolled up Pat in his shawl and stuffed him under the
seat. Then rearranging the lap-robe over my knees, I drove on, trembling
a little, it is true.

As I supposed, the carriage contained ladies, and I knew them all. The
coachman instinctively drew up, as we approached. We always stopped and
spoke, on such occasions.

They asked me after my wife, apparently surprised to see me alone, and
made a number of pleasant observations, to all of which I replied with
as unconcerned and easy an air as I could assume. The ladies were in
excellent spirits, but in spite of this, there seemed to be an air of
repression about them, which I thought of when I drove on, but could not
account for, for little Pat never moved or whimpered, during the whole
of the interview.

But when I took him again in my lap, and happened to turn, as I arranged
the robe, I saw his bottle sticking up boldly by my side from between
the cushions. Then I did not wonder at the repression.

When I reached home, I drove directly to the barn. Fortunately, Jonas
was there. When I called him and handed little Pat to him I never saw
a man more utterly amazed. He stood, and held the child without a
word. But when I explained the whole affair to him, he comprehended it
perfectly, and was delighted. I think he was just as anxious for my plan
to work as I was myself, although he did not say so.

I was about to take the child into the house, when Jonas remarked that
it was barefooted.

"That won't do," I said. "It certainly had socks on, when I got it. I
saw them."

"Here they are," said Jonas, fishing them out from the shawl, "he's
kicked them off."

"Well, we must put them on," I said, "it won't do to take him in, that
way. You hold him."

So Jonas sat down on the feed-box, and carefully taking little Pat, he
held him horizontally, firmly pressed between his hands and knees, with
his feet stuck out toward me, while I knelt down before him and tried to
put on the little socks. But the socks were knit or worked very loosely,
and there seemed to be a good many small holes in them, so that
Pat's funny little toes, which he kept curling up and uncurling, were
continually making their appearance in unexpected places through the
sock. But, after a great deal of trouble, I got them both on, with the
heels in about the right places.

"Now they ought to be tied on," I said, "Where are his garters?"

"I don't believe babies have garters," said Jonas, doubtfully, "but I
could rig him up a pair."

"No," said I; "we wont take the time for that. I'll hold his legs apart,
as I carry him in. It's rubbing his feet together that gets them off."

As I passed the kitchen window, I saw Pomona at work. She looked at me,
dropped something, and I heard a crash. I don't know how much that crash
cost me. Jonas rushed in to tell Pomona about it, and in a moment I
heard a scream of laughter. At this, Euphemia appeared at an upper
window, with her hand raised and saying, severely: "Hush-h!" But the
moment she saw me, she disappeared from the window and came down-stairs
on the run. She met me, just as I entered the dining-room.

"What IN the world!" she breathlessly exclaimed.

"This," said I, taking Pat into a better position in my arms, "is my
baby."

"Your--baby!" said Euphemia. "Where did you get it? what are you going
to do with it?"

"I got it in New Dublin," I replied, "and I want it to amuse and occupy
me while I am at home. I haven't anything else to do, except things that
take me away from you."

"Oh!" said Euphemia.

At this moment, little Pat gave his first whimper. Perhaps he felt the
searching glance that fell upon him from the lady in the middle of the
room.

I immediately began to walk up and down the floor with him, and to sing
to him. I did not know any infant music, but I felt sure that a
soothing tune was the great requisite, and that the words were of small
importance. So I started on an old Methodist tune, which I remembered
very well, and which was used with the hymn containing the lines:


     "Weak and wounded, sick and sore,"


and I sang, as soothingly as I could:


    "Lit-tle Pat-sy, Wat-sy, Sat-sy,
     Does he feel a lit-ty bad?
     Me will send and get his bot-tle
     He sha'n't have to cry-wy-wy."


"What an idiot!" said Euphemia, laughing in spite of her vexation.


    "No, we aint no id-i-otses
     What we want's a bot-ty mik."


So I sang as I walked to the kitchen door, and sent Jonas to the barn
for the bottle.

Pomona was in spasms of laughter in the kitchen, and Euphemia was trying
her best not to laugh at all.

"Who's going to take care of it, I'd like to know?" she said, as soon as
she could get herself into a state of severe inquiry.


    "Some-times me, and some-times Jonas,"


I sang, still walking up and down the room with a long, slow step,
swinging the baby from side to side, very much as if it were grass-seed
in a sieve, and I were sowing it over the carpet.

When the bottle came, I took it, and began to feed little Pat. Perhaps
the presence of a critical and interested audience embarrassed us, for
Jonas and Pomona were at the door, with streaming eyes, while Euphemia
stood with her handkerchief to the lower part of her face, or it may
have been that I did not understand the management of bottles, but, at
any rate, I could not make the thing work, and the disappointed little
Pat began to cry, just as the whole of our audience burst into a wild
roar of laughter.

"Here! Give me that child!" cried Euphemia, forcibly taking Pat and the
bottle from me. "You'll make it swallow the whole affair, and I'm sure
its mouth's big enough."

"You really don't think," she said, when we were alone, and little Pat,
with his upturned blue eyes serenely surveying the features of the
good lady who knew how to feed him, was placidly pulling away at his
india-rubber tube, "that I will consent to your keeping such a creature
as this in the house? Why, he's a regular little Paddy! If you kept him
he'd grow up into a hod-carrier."

"Good!" said I. "I never thought of that. What a novel thing it would be
to witness the gradual growth of a hod-carrier! I'll make him a little
hod, now, to begin with. He couldn't have a more suitable toy."

"I was talking in earnest," she said. "Take your baby, and please carry
him home as quick as you can, for I am certainly not going to take care
of him."

"Of course not," said I. "Now that I see how it's done, I'm going to do
it myself. Jonas will mix his feed and I will give it to him. He looks
sleepy now. Shall I take him upstairs and lay him on our bed?"

"No, indeed," cried Euphemia. "You can put him on a quilt on the floor,
until after luncheon, and then you must take him home."

I laid the young Milesian on the folded quilt which Euphemia prepared
for him, where he turned up his little pug nose to the ceiling and went
contentedly to sleep.

That afternoon I nailed four legs on a small packing-box and made a
bedstead for him. This, with a pillow in the bottom of it, was very
comfortable, and instead of taking him home, I borrowed, in the evening,
some baby night-clothes from Pomona, and set about preparing Pat for the
night.

This Euphemia would not allow, but silently taking him from me, she put
him to bed.

"To-morrow," she said, "you must positively take him away. I wont stand
it. And in our room, too."

"I didn't talk in that way about the baby you adopted," I said.

To this she made no answer, but went away to attend, as usual, to
Pomona's baby, while its mother washed the dishes.

That night little Pat woke up, several times, and made things unpleasant
by his wails. On the first two occasions, I got up and walked him about,
singing impromptu lines to the tune of "weak and wounded," but the third
time, Euphemia herself arose, and declaring that that doleful tune was
a great deal worse than the baby's crying, silenced him herself, and
arranging his couch more comfortably, he troubled us no more.

In the morning, when I beheld the little pad of orange fur in the box,
my heart almost misgave me, but as the day wore on, my courage rose
again, and I gave myself up, almost entirely, to my new charge,
composing a vast deal of blank verse, while walking him up and down the
house.

Euphemia scolded and scolded, and said she would put on her hat and go
for the mother. But I told her the mother was dead, and that seemed to
be an obstacle. She took a good deal of care of the child, for she said
she would not see an innocent creature neglected, even if it was
an incipient hod-carrier, but she did not relax in the least in her
attention to Pomona's baby.

The next day was about the same, in regard to infantile incident, but,
on the day after, I began to tire of my new charge, and Pat, on his
side, seemed to be tired of me, for he turned from me when I went to
take him up, while he would hold out his hands to Euphemia, and grin
delightedly when she took him.

That morning I drove to the village and spent an hour or two there. On
my return I found Euphemia sitting in our room, with little Pat on her
lap. I was astonished at the change in the young rascal. He was dressed,
from head to foot, in a suit of clothes belonging to Pomona's baby; the
glowing fuzz on his head was brushed and made as smooth as possible,
while his little muslin sleeves were tied up with blue ribbon.

I stood speechless at the sight.

"Don't he look nice?" said Euphemia, standing him up on her knees. "It
shows what good clothes will do. I'm glad I helped Pomona make up so
many. He's getting ever so fond of me, ze itty Patsy, watsy! See how
strong he is! He can almost stand on his legs! Look how he laughs! He's
just as cunning as he can be. And oh! I was going to speak about that
box. I wouldn't have him sleep in that old packing-box. There are little
wicker cradles at the store--I saw them last week--they don't cost much,
and you could bring one up in the carriage. There's the other baby,
crying, and I don't know where Pomona is. Just you mind him a minute,
please!" and out she ran.

I looked out of the window. The horse still stood harnessed to the
carriage, as I had left him. I saw Pat's old shawl lying in a corner.
I seized it, and rolling him in it, new clothes and all, I hurried
down-stairs, climbed into the carriage, hastily disposed Pat in my lap,
and turned the horse. The demeanor of the youngster was very different
from what it was when I first took him in my lap to drive away with him.
There was no confiding twinkle in his eye, no contented munching of his
little fists. He gazed up at me with wild alarm, and as I drove out of
the gate, he burst forth into such a yell that Lord Edward came bounding
around the house to see what was the matter. Euphemia suddenly appeared
at an upper window and called out to me, but I did not hear what she
said. I whipped up the horse and we sped along to New Dublin. Pat soon
stopped crying, but he looked at me with a tear-stained and reproachful
visage.

The good women of the settlement were surprised to see little Pat return
so soon.

"An' wasn't he good?" said Mrs. Hogan as she took him from my hands.

"Oh, yes!" I said. "He was as good as he could be. But I have no further
need of him."

I might have been called upon to explain this statement, had not the
whole party of women, who stood around burst into wild expressions of
delight at Pat's beautiful clothes.

"Oh! jist look at 'em!" cried Mrs. Duffy. "An' see thim leetle
pittycoots, thrimmed wid lace! Oh, an' it was good in ye, sir, to give
him all thim, an' pay the foive dollars, too."

"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.