justification. Jims was warm, physically comfortable—his cry wasn’t the cry of pain—and had his little tummy as full as was good for him. Under such circumstances it would be simply spoiling him to fuss over him, and she wasn’t going to do it. He could cry until he got good and tired and ready to go to sleep again.
Then Rilla’s imagination began to torment her. Suppose, she thought, I was a tiny, helpless creature only five months old, with my father somewhere in France and my poor little mother, who had been so worried about me, in the graveyard. Suppose I was lying in a basket in a big, black room, without one speck of light, and nobody within miles of me, for all I could see or know. Suppose there wasn’t a human being anywhere who loved me—for a father who had never seen me couldn’t love me very much, especially when he had never written a word to or about me. Wouldn’t I cry, too? Wouldn’t I feel just so lonely and forsaken and frightened that I’d have to cry?
Rilla hopped out. She picked Jims out of his basket and took him into her own bed. His hands were cold, poor mite. But he had promptly ceased to cry. And then, as she held him close to her in the darkness, suddenly Jims laughed—a real, gurgly, chuckly, delighted, delightful laugh.
“Oh, you dear little thing!” exclaimed Rilla. “Are you so pleased at finding you’re not all alone, lost in a huge, big, black room?” Then she knew she wanted to kiss him and she did. She kissed his silky, scented little head, she kissed his chubby little cheek, she kissed his little cold hands. She wanted to squeeze him—to cuddle him, just as she used to squeeze and
