"I never see a prettier child. Poor mother, to have to go and leave
him. Father, what do you say?"

"It's for you to say, mother;" said Father Golden. "It's to you the
child was sent."

"Do you suppose 'twas me that was meant? They might have mistaken the
house."

"Don't talk foolishness!" said Father Golden. "The question is, what
shall we do with it? There's places, a plenty, where foundlings have
the best of bringing up; and you've got care enough, as it is, mother,
without taking on any more."

"Oh! we could help!" cried Mary. "I could wash and dress it, I know
I could, and I'd just love to."

"So could I!" said twelve-year-old Ruth. "We'd take turns, Mary and I.
Do let's keep it, mother!"

"It's a great responsibility!" said Father Golden.

"Great Jemima!" said Mother Golden, with a sniff. "If I couldn't
take the responsibility of a baby, I'd give up."

Father Golden's mind moved slowly, and while he was meditating a
reply, his wife issued various commands, and went through some
intricate feminine manoeuvres, with the effect of increased
fluffiness on the baby's part. In five minutes she was feeding the
child with warm milk from a spoon, and proclaiming that he ate