"It is as fit for me as for a child, anyhow," she said. "Do listen."

It was certainly no time for expostulation. All the mother was awake in
Ethelwyn's bosom. It would have been cruelty to make her go in, though she
was indeed ill-fitted to encounter such a night-wind.

Another wail reached us. It seemed to come from a thicket at one corner of
the lawn. We hurried thither. Again a cry, and we knew we were much nearer
to it. Searching and searching we went.

"There it is!" Ethelwyn almost screamed, as the feeble light of the lantern
fell on a dark bundle of something under a bush. She caught at it. It gave
another pitiful wail--the poor baby of some tramp, rolled up in a dirty,
ragged shawl, and tied round with a bit of string, as if it had been a
parcel of clouts. She set off running with it to the house, and I followed,
much fearing she would miss her way in the dark, and fall. I could hardly
get up with her, so eager was she to save the child. She darted up to her
own room, where the fire was not yet out.

"Run to the kitchen, Harry, and get some hot water. Take the two jugs
there--you can empty them in the sink: you won't know where to find
anything. There will be plenty in the boiler."

By the time I returned with the hot water, she had taken off the child's
covering, and was sitting with it, wrapped in a blanket, before the fire.
The little thing was cold as a stone, and now silent and motionless. We
had found it just in time. Ethelwyn ordered me about as if I had been a
nursemaid. I poured the hot water into a footbath.

"Some cold water, Harry. You would boil the child."