“Good-bye,” he said, “mind and wait for Jennie to come and bring you home. Don’t leave Mrs. Hume’s alone.”
“No, dear Daddy Grandpa.” Then she went on, anxiously, “Will the baby be here when Bethany comes home?”
“I hope so,” said the Judge, politely.
“Yes, he will,” said Berty, “that dreadful baby will be here for luncheon, and for dinner, too, if he is not turned out before then.”
The Judge smiled. “He won’t be. I have a fellow-feeling for that baby. Many a time I have heard my dear departed mother say that I was one of the worst children she ever saw.”
“O, Judge,” said Berty, vivaciously, “is that true? Can it be that there is hope for my baby of becoming a man like you?”
“Tut! tut! he will be a far better one.”
“Judge, will you take him and bring him up?”
The Judge tried to repress a shudder, but could not. He liked Berty’s baby, and had great patience with him as an occasional visitor, but as steady company—“No,” he said, thoughtfully, “that baby needs a mother.”
“So he does,” said Berty, catching him up in her arms, “mother’s great fat lump of flesh with a naughty little mind inside. Now, Judge, what are you going to do this morning?”