one on the table.

"Lost!" he whispered, "lost! Oh, that dreadful word! Yes, she's
lost. Poor little Lou. It's all over."

The woman drew Caroline back into the sitting room.

"I'm sorry you should see him," she said. "You must excuse him--he
don't really know what he's doing. He lost his wife a week ago and
he's hardly slept since. It's real sad. I was as sorry as I could be
for 'em, and I'd have kept 'em even longer if she'd lived, though
they couldn't pay. I'd keep the baby, too, if I could, it's such a
cute little thing, but I can't, and I'm to take it to the Foundling
to-day. I'll go right out with you, and see that the police--"

"Oh, is there a baby? Let me see it!" Caroline pleaded. "How old
is it?"

"Just a week," said the woman. "Yes, you can see him. He's good as
gold, and big--! He weighs nine pounds."

In the third room, lying in a roll of blankets on a tumbled cot, a
pink, fat baby slept, one fist in his dewy mouth. The red-gold down
was thick on his round head; he looked like a wax Christ-child for
a Christmas tree.

Caroline sighed ecstatically.

"Isn't he lovely!" she breathed.

"He's a fine child," the woman agreed. "And his mother never saw
him, poor little thing. Nor his father either, for that matter."

Caroline looked in amazement toward the kitchen.

"Never laid his eyes on him," the woman went on sadly, "as if it was
any good, to blame the poor baby! He's taken a terrible grudge on
the little thing. He was awfully fond of his wife, though. He told
me he was going to leave him right here, and then, of course,
somebody in the house would notify the police, if I didn't take him
to the Foundling. And of course he'd get better care, for that
matter--there's no doubt about that. It's too bad. There's people
that would give their eyes for a fine baby like that, you know."

"I know it," said Caroline simply, "my cousin Richard would be glad
to have him--he wants one very much. But he's very particular."

The woman looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?" she asked. "How
particular?"

Suddenly she laughed nervously. "I ought to be ashamed of myself,"
she said, "you ought to be at the police station now. But I'm all
worn out, and it does me good to talk to anybody. I don't let the
neighbors in much--it's a cheap set of people around here, and Mr.
Williston's different from them and I hate to hear him talking to
them the way he will. He don't know what he's doing. He tells 'em
all about