One morning Drusilla was sitting in the sun parlor, looking at a great box of baby clothing that had been sent her from the city, when Miss Lee came in. She had her tatting with her and Drusilla saw that she was in for a visitation. She tried to interest her guest in the wonders of the baby frocks, but Miss Lee only shook her head and would not notice them.
"I don't care for children nor their clothing, Miss Doane, and I can never see how you care to burden yourself with all those waifs at your time of life. Now I, if I had your money, would enjoy myself."
"But I am enjoying myself," said Drusilla. "Why I take more comfort in them babies than I've ever had in all my seventy years."
"But they are such a care, such a bother."
"Bother, my aunt!" said Drusilla emphatically. "They ain't no bother. They give me something to think about. Now, look at these clothes. I been all mornin' lookin' at 'em and sortin' 'em out. Look at that petticoat. See how soft and warm it is. I wish I'd made it myself. I can sit here and imagine how some mother'd feel makin' a petticoat like that fer her baby. I'm goin' to buy a lot of cloth and git some patterns and let the mothers make 'em themselves. When it's a little warmer they can set under the trees and sew while the babies is playin' around them."
"But the mothers you have here—will—do you think that class—those kind of mothers will care to sew?"
Drusilla flushed and an angry gleam came into her kindly eyes.
"Sew? Why shouldn't they sew, and what do you mean by that class? All the mothers I got here seem jest like any other mothers."
"We must admit," went on the refined, querulous voice, "that they are not the usual mothers—with husbands—"
Drusilla's eyes distinctly darkened, and the flush deepened.