“We—we can keep it here for awhile—can’t we—until something can be arranged?” she stammered confusedly.
Dr. Blythe walked up and down the kitchen for a moment or two while the baby stared at the white walls of the soup tureen and Susan showed signs of returning animation.
Presently the doctor confronted Rilla.
“A young baby means a great deal of additional work and trouble in a household, Rilla. Nan and Di are leaving for Redmond next week and neither your mother nor Susan is able to assume so much extra care under present conditions. If you want to keep that baby here you must attend to it yourself.”
“Me!” Rilla was dismayed into being ungrammatical. “ Why—father—I—I couldn’t!”
“Younger girls than you have had to look after babies. My advice and Susan’s is at your disposal. If you cannot, then the baby must go back to Meg Conover. It’s lease of life will be short if it does for it is evident that it is a delicate child, and requires particular care. I doubt if it would survive even if sent to an orphan’s home. But I cannot have your mother and Susan over-taxed.”
The doctor walked out of the kitchen, looking very stern and immovable. In his heart he knew quite well that the small inhabitant of the big soup tureen would remain at Ingleside, but he meant to see if Rilla could not be induced to rise to the occasion.
Rilla sat looking blankly at the baby. It was absurd to think she could take care of it. But—that poor little, frail, dead mother who had worried about it—that dreadful old Meg Conover.
