"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 meant _it_"--pointing to the baby.

"James, it is not an _it_. It's a _he_. But you're right, James;
what'll we do with it?" And she looked down at the little body in her
arms.