Tom flung the doors and windows open in great alarm.
“It is hot,” he said. “It’s hot enough out of doors, but Mis’ Simpson told me to keep her shut up, and I thought she’d had experience enough to know.”
“Jane Simpson!” with ill-concealed scorn. “She’d orter! She’s had six to die in their second summer. I reckon she told ye to give her half-b’iled milk as often as she wanted it?”
Tom reflected in manifest trepidation.
“She did tell me not to boil it too much, and to give it to her when she called for it,” he said, slowly.
“Wal, if ye don’t want ter kill her, take my advice an’ bile it a good half hour, ‘n’ don’t give it to her oftener than once in three hours. She’ll cry fur it, but ye needn’t mind. Ye’ll get used ter it. I don’t believe in lettin’ young uns hev nuthin’ out o’ their reg’lar time.”
The next caller found Tom somewhat discouraged. He preceded her into the reception-chamber with less alacrity than he had shown in his previous visits.
She was a younger woman than the rest, and when she reached the cradle’s side, she bent down and rearranged the cover with a soft touch.
“She’s gwine to be a purty little thing,” she said; “she’ll be sorter dark-complected, but she’s gwine to hev purty hair ‘n’ eyes. Ye’ll be right proud of her, Tom, when she’s grown, ‘n’ I guess she’ll be a heap o’ company to you. Lord!” with a motherly sigh, “it seems sorter curi’s her bein’ left to a man; but you’ll do well by her, Tom, you’ll do well by her. I hain’t no doubt o’ that. You was always mighty clever with children.”
“I’ll do all I can for her,” said Tom, “though I suppose that isn’t much.”