So one evening she dressed them in their very best clothes and gave them each a dose of paregoric, not enough to endanger their little lives—she knew her business too well for that—but to put them into a deep sleep.
When it was dark she got a large market basket with a strong handle, folded a clean cradle blanket and laid it in the bottom of it, took another little blanket and laid it in loose so that its edges came up over those of the receptacle.
Then she wrapped the sleeping babies up carefully, put them in the bottom, laid comfortably at each end with their feet passing each other in the middle, covered them over with the double folds of the upper blanket, and so done up like a pastry cook’s turn-over pie, she took them in the basket on her arm and carried them out into the dimly lighted back streets and off into the country to the infant asylum of the Holy Maternity. She had not far to go. When she reached the gate, which stood always open for the reception of such piteous little human waifs as infant outcasts, she went in and up to the gable end of the building, where stood the cage to receive the poor, naked, fatherless, motherless human birdlings. It was a large oriel window, about breast high from the ground.
She rang the bell at the side of the window. It swung open and around, bearing attached on its inner side a soft, warm nest, or small cradle.
Mrs. Mally took the sleeping infants from the basket, one by one, and placed them in the nest, tucked them snugly in, put the two cradle blankets, folded, over them, and then rang the bell again. The window-sash with the nest swung round and inward, and so the abandoned babes were received within the sheltering arm of the “Holy Maternity,” and no questions asked. We know the rest of their lives so far as they have yet lived.
Mrs. Mally went home with her empty basket, and that night missed the babes so much that she wept with contrition and loneliness.
The next day she hunted up every article of infant wear belonging to the twins, washed and ironed all that was soiled, then packed them into the basket, and when night came she went once more to the asylum and rang at the receiving window. Again the nest swung outward, and she put into it, no baby, but a quantity of babies’ clothing, then rang the bell again and the offering was swung inward.
Then Mrs. Mally went home with the empty basket, relieved.
During all this time The O’Melaghlin lay ill of a long, lingering fever in the mining camp under the shadow of the great Black Rock Ridges.
He had not been utterly unsuccessful during the first days of trial before he succumbed to the fierce onset of his disease. He was as kindly cared for by his companions as circumstances would permit. He had no orthodox medical attendance. A Mexican Indian, an herb doctress, came and nursed him. Her simple ministrations, with the aid of pure air, pure water, nature and a good constitution, saved his life.