May 3. I have had a dreadful call from Mrs. Webbe. She came over in the middle of the forenoon, and the moment I saw her determined expression I felt sure something painful was to happen.
"Good-morning," she said abruptly; "I have come after my son's infant."
"What?" I responded, my wits scattering like chickens before a hawk.
"I have come after my son's infant," she repeated. "We are obliged to you for taking care of it; but I won't trouble you with it any longer."
I told her I was to keep baby always. She looked at me with tightening lips.
"I don't want to have disagreeable words with you, Ruth," she said, "but you must know we could never allow such a thing."
I asked her why.
"You must know," she said, "you are not fit to be trusted with an immortal soul."
I fear that I unmeaningly let the shadow of a smile show as I said,—