I had supposed, up to this time, that I had been called upon to bear and suffer every annoyance that humanity and the state of the country could inflict; but here was something most unexpected in addition; for lying composedly on her husband’s cot (he had relinquished it for the occasion), lay Mrs. Daniells, and her baby, just two hours old.
What shall I do with it?
The conversation that ensued is not worth repeating, being more of the nature of soliloquy. The poor little wretch had ventured into a bleak and comfortless portion of the world, and its inhuman mother had not provided a rag to cover it. No one could scold her at such a time, however ardently they might desire to do so. But what was to be done? I went in search of my chief surgeon, and our conversation although didactic was hardly satisfactory on the subject.
“Doctor, Mrs. Daniells has a baby. She is in ward G. What shall I do with her?”
“A baby! Bless me! Ah indeed! You must get it some clothes.”
“What must I do with her?”
“Move her to an empty ward and give her some tea and toast.”
This was offered, but Mrs. D. said she would wait until dinner-time and have some bacon and greens.
The baby was a sore annoyance. The ladies of Richmond made up a wardrobe, each contributing some article, and at the end of the month, Mrs D., the child, and a basket of clothing and provisions were sent to the cars with a return ticket to her home in western Virginia. My feelings of relief can be imagined. But the end had not come. An hour after the ambulance had started with them, it stopped at my kitchen door apparently empty, and the black driver with a grin half of delighted mischief and half of fear silently lifted a bundle out and deposited it carefully upon my kitchen dresser. Mrs. Daniells’ baby!
As Godmother.