BROWN’S BORROWED BABY

On the following Saturday, at five in the afternoon, the previous hours having been filled with a long list of errands of all sorts, yet all having to do with people, and the people’s affairs, seldom his own, Brown turned his steps home-ward.  The steps lagged a little, for he was tired.

At the house next his own—­a shabby little house, yet with rows of blooming scarlet geraniums in tin cans on its two lower window sills, and clean, if patched, muslin curtains behind the plants—­Brown turned in once more.  Standing in the kitchen doorway he put a question: 

“Mrs. Kelcey, may I borrow Norah for an hour?”

The person addressed looked up from her work, grinned a broad Irish grin, pushed back a lock of bothersome hair with a soapy hand, and answered heartily: 

“To be shure ye may, Misther Brown.  I says to mesilf an hour ago, I says, ‘Happen he’ll come for Nory to-night, it bein’ Saturday night, an’ him bein’ apt to come of a Saturday night.’  So I give her her bath early, to get her out o’ the way before the bhoys come home.  So it’s clane she is, if she ain’t got into no mischief the half hour.”

She dashed into the next room and returned triumphant, her youngest daughter on her arm.  Five minutes later Brown bore little Norah Kelcey into his bachelor domain, wrapped in her mother’s old plaid shawl, her blue eyes looking expectantly from its folds.  It was not the first time she had paid a visit to the place—­she remembered what there was in store for her there.  She was just two years old, was Norah, a mere slip of an Irish baby, with a tangled mop of dark curls above eyes of deep blue set in bewildering lashes, and with a mouth like a freshly budded rose.

Brown withdrew the shawl and knelt on the floor before her.  Bim, who had welcomed the two with eagerness, sat down beside them.

“You see, Bim,” explained his master, “I had to have something human to love for an hour or two.  You’re pretty nearly human, I know, but not quite.  Norah is human—­she’s flesh-and-blood.  A fellow gets starved for the touch of flesh-and-blood sometimes, Bim.”

He bent over the child.  Then he lifted her again and bore her into his bedroom.  Clean and wholesome she was without question, but he disliked the faint odour of laundry soap which hung about her.  Smiling at her, playing with her, making a game of it, he gently bathed the little face and neck, the plump arms and hands, using a clear toilet soap with a most delicate suggestion of fragrance.  When he brought her back to his fireside she was a small honey-pot for sweetness and daintiness, and fit for the caresses she was sure to get.

Brown sat down with her upon his knee.  He had given her a tiny doll to snuggle in her arms, and she was quiet as a kitten.

“Norah,” said he, speaking softly, “you are adorable.  Your eyes are the colour of deep-sea water and they make havoc with my heart.  That heart, by the way, is soft as melting snow to-night, Norah.  It’s longing for all the old things, longing so hard it aches like a bruise.  It’s done its best to be stoical about this exile, but there are times when stoicism is a failure.  This is one of those times.  Norah baby, would you mind very much if I kiss the back of your little neck?”