mothered the young ones.

Mrs. Lander, when she had wrung the last drop of information out of him,
let him crawl back to his work, mentally flaccid, and let her husband
drive on, but under a fire of conjecture and asseveration that was
scarcely intermitted till they reached their hotel. That night she talked
along time about their afternoon's adventure before she allowed him to go
to sleep. She said she must certainly see the child again; that they must
drive down there in the morning, and ask her all about herself.

"Albe't," she concluded; "I wish we had her to live with us. Yes, I do! I
wonder if we could get her to. You know I always did want to adopt a
baby."

"You neva said so," Mr. Lander opened his mouth almost for the first
time, since the talk began.

"I didn't suppose you'd like it," said his wife.

"Well, she a'n't a baby. I guess you'd find you had your hands full,
takon' a half-grown gul like that to bring up."

"I shouldn't be afraid any," the wife declared. "She has just twined
herself round my heat. I can't get her pretty looks out of my eyes. I
know she's good."

"We'll see how you feel about it in the morning."

The old man began to wind his watch, and his wife seemed to take this for
a sign that the incident was closed, for the present at least. He seldom