be here to-day. I’ve come to ask your advice about—well, about things in general.”
Mrs. Rutherford uttered a little cry of delighted curiosity and surprise.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed, “I never heard such a thing! Mother!” turning her head to call to someone in the room beyond, “it’s all true about the baby. Do come and hear Mr. De Willoughby tell about it.”
She sat down on the steps of the porch laughing and yet regarding Tom with a half sympathetic, half curious look. It was not the first time she had found him unexpectedly mysterious.
“Where’s the father?” she said. “Didn’t he care for the poor little thing at all? The Judge heard that he was so poor that he couldn’t take care of it. Hadn’t he any friends? It has a kind of heartless sound to me—his going away that way.”
“He was poor,” said Tom, quietly. “And he had no relatives who could take the child. He didn’t know what to do with it. I—I think he had a chance of making a living out West and—the blow seemed to have stunned him.”
“And you took the baby?” put in Mrs. Rutherford.
“Yes,” Tom answered, “I took the baby.”
“Is it a pretty baby?”
“Yes,” said Tom, “I think it is.”
Just then the Judge’s mother came out and he was called upon to tell the story again, when it was received with interest even more excited and wondering than before. The older Mrs. Rutherford exclaimed and looked dubious alternately.
“Are you sure you know what to do with it?” she asked.
“Well, no,” said Tom, “I’m not. I suppose I shall have to educate myself up to it gradually. There’ll be a good deal to learn, I suppose.”
But he did not appear at all discouraged, and presently broached the object of his visit, displaying such modest readiness to accept advice and avail himself of all opportunities for acquiring valuable information, that his young hostess was aroused to the deepest admiration, and when he proceeded to produce quite a large memorandum book with a view to taking an immediate list of all required articles, and established rules, she could scarcely contain her delight.
“I want to do it all up in the proper way,” he said.
Thereupon he was borne into the house and a consultation of the most serious practical nature was held. Piles of the last baby’s pretty garments being produced to illustrate any obscure point. The sight of those garments with their embroidery and many frills fired Tom with new enthusiasm. He could not resist the temptation to pick up one after another of the prettiest and most elaborate and hold them out at arm’s length, his fingers stuck through the sleeves the better to survey and display them to advantage.
“Yes,” he kept saying, “that’s the kind of thing she wants—pretty and with plenty of frills.”
He seemed to set his heart especially upon this abundance of frills and kept it in view throughout the entire arrangements. Little Mrs. Rutherford was to take charge of the matter, purchasing all necessaries and superintending the work of placing it in competent hands.
“Why,” she said, laughing at him delightedly, “she’ll be the best dressed baby in the county.”
“I’d like her to be among the best,” said Tom, with a grave face, “among the best.”
Whereupon Mrs. Rutherford laughed a little again, and then quite suddenly stopped and regarded him for a moment with some thoughtfulness.
“He has some curious notions about that baby, mother,” she said afterwards. “I can see it in all he says. Everyone mightn’t understand it. I’m not sure I do myself, but he has a big, kind heart, that Tom de Willoughby, a big, kind heart.”
She understood more clearly the workings of the big, kind heart before he left them the next morning.
At night after she had put her child to sleep, she joined him on the front porch, where he sat in the moonlight, and there he spoke more fully to her.
He had seated himself upon the steps of the porch and wore a deeper reflective air, as he played with a spray of honeysuckle he had broken from its vine.
She drew up her rocking-chair and sat down near him.
“I actually believe you are thinking of that baby now,” she said, with a laugh. “You really look as if you were.”
“Well,” he admitted, “the fact is that’s just what I was doing—thinking of her.”
“Well, and what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking—” holding his spray of honeysuckle between his thumb and forefinger and looking at it in an interested way, “I was thinking about what name I should give her.”
“Oh!” she said, “she hasn’t any name?”
“No,” Tom answered, without removing his eyes from his honeysuckle, “she hasn’t any name yet.”
“Well,” she exclaimed, “they were queer people.”
There was a moment’s silence which she spent in looking curiously both at him and his honeysuckle.
“What was her mother’s name?” she asked at last.
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Rutherford sat up in her chair.
“You don’t know!”
“She was dying when I saw her first, and I never thought of asking.”
“But her father?”
“I didn’t think of asking that either, and nobody knew anything of them. I suppose he was not in the frame of mind to think of such things himself. It was all over and done with so soon. He went away as soon as she was buried.”
Mrs. Rutherford sank back into her chair.
“It’s the strangest story I ever heard of in my life,” she commented, with a sigh of amazement. “The man must have been crazed with grief. I suppose he was very fond of his wife?”
“I suppose so,” said Tom.
There was another pause of a few moments, and from the thoughts with which they occupied it Mrs. Rutherford roused herself with a visible effort.
“Well,” she said, cheerily, “let it be a pretty name.”
“Yes,” answered Tom, “it must be a pretty one.”
He turned the bit of honeysuckle so that the moonlight fell on its faintly tinted flower. It really seemed as if he felt he should get on better for having it to look at and refer to.
“I want it to be a pretty name,” he went on, “and I’ve thought of a good many that sounded well enough, but none of them
