They stared at her, and so did we three dogs.
“Perhaps, if you wait,” said master kindly.
“I want one to-night,” she said mopping her eyes. “There are so many poor little babies without a home—unhappy little creatures, crying in the night. I want to adopt one.”
Mr. Bonstone, as if he were telling her he would go down town and buy her a present, said, “Wait till I come downstairs. I’ll get you one.”
She threw herself in a big chair, and cried harder than ever. I think she was overwrought, and was having a spell of nerves. I followed my master and Mr. Bonstone upstairs.
“Look here, Bonstone,” said my master, “it isn’t so easy to pick up a baby at a minute’s notice. You’d better put her off till to-morrow.”
“She’s got to have it to-night,” said he, pressing his thin lips together in his inflexible way.
“There are all kinds of difficulties,” continued my master, “signing contracts, proving life support and legacy after your death, giving references and so on.”
“There are babies ready to jump into a home,” said Mr. Bonstone.
“I have it,” exclaimed master as he sat on the edge of the bed, in a magnificent guest room. “Go to old Ellen, I’ll give you her address, and take my dog. He’ll lead you to her apartment.”