The baby, a healthy little youngster about eight months old, blinked up at Drusilla in a friendly manner, then clutched her hair. Drusilla laughed, as she drew her head away.
"That's the first thing all babies make for, my hair. Bless his little heart, he's gettin' familiar already."
James interrupted.
"What'll I do with it, Miss Doane?"
Drusilla looked up from the baby.
"Do with what? The basket? Take it away."
"No, ma'am; I meant it"—pointing to the baby.
"James, it is not an it. It's a he. But you're right, James; what'll we do with it?" And she looked down at the little body in her arms.
"Why—why—" stammered James, who plainly showed that disposing of babies left by chance at doorsteps was entirely out of the usual line of a well trained butler's duties, "I don't know, ma'am. It never happened before where I've served." Here he had an inspiration and his face cleared. "Perhaps we'd better send for Mr. Thornton."
Drusilla looked up at him in a relieved way.