CHAPTER XXI TRAGEDY
Indoors was the scene and sound of confusion. Delia, sensing the panic that lay in the atmosphere, was crying wildly for her mother. The other children, unchecked, were running about the house in a game that seemed an improvised combination of tag and hide-and-go-seek. Their excited cries rang from above. Arthur was at the telephone trying to get Central. Beside him, a pencil ready to take down anything of importance, very wan-faced and pale, drooped Dicky. From the dining room came the clatter of plates as Harold and Laura went practically to work to set the table.
Arthur stared at Maida and Rosie as they entered with their strange bundle; stopped his telephoning to say, “Where did you get that baby?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” Maida said wearily, “but now we’ve got to work fast and I never was so tired in my life. Oh Dicky dear, I’m so sorry for you! Poor, poor, Mrs. Dore and poor, poor Granny!”
But it was Rosie who really took the situation in charge, Rosie who so loved babies, Rosie who having helped so long in the care of her own little brother, knew exactly what to do.
“Tell Laura to get some milk from the ice chest, Arthur!” she commanded crisply, “and warm it up on the stove as quickly as possible. Then bring it upstairs to us. Maida, you come with me!” Rosie marched up to the bathroom and Maida meekly followed. On the first floor, “Get Mrs. Dore’s sewing board!” Rosie ordered and Maida got it. In the bathroom, Rosie placed the sewing board across the tub, close to the hand bowl; began to undress the baby.
There were few things to take off. They were all loose, comparatively clean, but ragged. Soon the little creature lay on the soft towels that Rosie had spread on the sewing board, kicking feebly. The removal of her clothes seemed to ease her. Her cry abated its violence a bit. Only what was the translation of a baby sob came now and then. Rosie filled the bowl with warm water, then with the gentlest of soothing strokes and using the softest sponge she could find, she began to bathe the baby. Its crying died down completely. It responded to this cooling treatment with a little soft coo that drew from Maida, “Oh the little darling. Don’t you love her already, Rosie?”
“I love all babies,” Rosie said in a business-like tone, sopping the little girl’s downy head. She dried her carefully—deft little pattings that seemed merely pettings—with the finest towel she could get.
“Run to Mrs. Dore’s room and get Delia’s powder!” she commanded briefly again. When Maida returned, she covered the little glowing form with the cool powder. The baby’s eyelids began to droop.