day before, and the baby still under the influence of the opiate her
mother had given her to make her drown quietly.



Chapter XXVII.

The baby has her breakfast.


He waked Tommy, and showed him the loaf. Tommy sprang from his lair
and snatched at it.

"No, Tommy," said Clare, drawing back, "I can't trust you! You would
eat it all; and if I died of hunger, what would become of baby, left
alone with you? I don't feel at all sure you wouldn't eat _her_!"

Baby started a feeble whimper.

"You must wait now till I've attended to her," continued Clare. "If
you had got up quietly without waking her, I would have given you your
share at once."

As he spoke, he pulled a blanket off the bed to wrap her in, and made
haste to take her up. A series of difficulties followed, which I will
leave to the imagination of mothers and aunts, and nurses in
general--the worst being that there was no warm water to wash her in,
and cold water would be worse than dangerous after what she had gone
through with it the night before. Clare comforted himself that washing
was a thing non-essential to existence, however desirable for