“I know what he’s going to do,” he said. “He’s going away to-morrow after the funeral.”
“‘N’ take the child?” in a chorus.
“No,” said Tom, professing to be deeply interested in the unclosing of the small red fist. “I’m going to take the child.”
There were four sharp exclamations, and for a second or so all four women gazed at him with open mouths. It was Mrs. Doty who first recovered herself sufficiently to speak. She gave him a lively dig with her elbow.
“Now, Tom D’Willerby,” she said, “none of your foolin’. This yere ain’t no time for it.”
“Mars D’Willerby,” said Aunt Mornin, “dis chile’s mother’s a-lyin’ dead in the nex’ room.”
Tom stooped a trifle lower. He put out both his hands and took the baby in them.
“I’m not foolin’,” he said, rather uncertainly. “I’m in earnest, ladies. The mother is dead and the man’s going away. There’s nobody else to claim her, he tells me, and so I’ll claim her. There’s enough of me to take care of her, and I mean to do it.”
It was so extraordinary a sensation, that for a few moments there was another silence, broken as before by Mrs. Doty.
“Waal,” she remarked, removing her snuff-stick and expectorating into the fire. “Ye’ve allus been kinder fond o’ chillun, Tom, and mebbe she ain’t as colicky by natur’ as Martin Luther was, but I mus’ say it’s the curi’sest thing I ever heern—him a-gwine away an’ givin’ her cl’ar up as ef he hadn’t no sort o’ nat’ral feelin’s—I do say it’s curi’s.”