"It's her bottle she wants, Thora," said Aunt Margret, "and here it is ready and waiting--I keep it warm on the top of the stove."
"Let me give it her, let me give it her," cried Thora.
"Do you think you can, my pretty? But of course you can! My goodness, it's wonderful--when a person is a mother she can do anything with a baby. An angel seems to whisper, 'Do that,' and she does it, and it's just right for the child."
The little creature was now sucking vigorously with its tiny face toward the mother's breast and its plump red hand on her pallid cheek.
"But it's you that wants milk, my child," said Aunt Margret. "Yes, and some spirits too, and you shall have both in a minute. Lay your poor head against this pillow, my precious, and wait while I get the decanter."
The child was now dropping off to sleep and Thora looked lovingly down at it and said:
"God bless my motherless baby!"
"Motherless, indeed! Who says she's motherless? She has too many mothers, it seems to me," said Aunt Margret.
The tit slipped from the child's slackening lips, and Thora leaned down and kissed away the drops that trickled from the little mouth.
"I wish I could die," she said. "I wish I could die now, Aunt Margret."