“Oh, but he isn't, I tell you. He isn't one bit of a Henshaw baby! The Henshaw babies are always pretty ones. They have more hair, and they look—well, different.”
Billy gave a low cry, and struggled to her feet.
“Oh, no,” spoke up Kate, in answer to another indistinct something from the nurse. “I don't think he's near as pretty as the twins. Of course the twins are a good deal older, but they have such a bright look,—and they did have, from the very first. I saw it in their tiniest baby pictures. But this baby—”
“This baby is mine, please,” cut in a tremulous, but resolute voice; and Mrs. Hartwell turned to confront Bertram, Jr.'s mother, manifestly weak and trembling, but no less manifestly blazing-eyed and determined.
“Why, Billy!” expostulated Mrs. Hartwell, as Billy stumbled forward and snatched the child into her arms.
“Perhaps he doesn't look like the Henshaw babies. Perhaps he isn't as pretty as the twins. Perhaps he hasn't much hair, and does have a snub nose. He's my baby just the same, and I shall not stay calmly by and see him abused! Besides, I think he's prettier than the twins ever thought of being; and he's got all the hair I want him to have, and his nose is just exactly what a baby's nose ought to be!” And, with a superb gesture, Billy turned and bore the baby away.
CHAPTER XXIII. BILLY AND THE ENORMOUS RESPONSIBILITY
When the doctor heard from the nurse of Mrs. Hartwell's visit and what had come of it, he only gave a discreet smile, as befitted himself and the occasion; but to his wife privately, that night, the doctor said, when he had finished telling the story:
“And I couldn't have prescribed a better pill if I'd tried!”