“Well—­but, Charlotte—­some of these women can take care of her—­Annie’s friends.”

“They are not Annie’s friends; they’re just her neighbours.  Not Annie’s kind at all.  They’re good-hearted enough, but it distressed Annie all the time to have any of them take care of Ellen.  They give her all sorts of things to eat.  She’s only a baby.  She was half-sick when I was here Thursday.  Oh, don’t make a fuss, Jeff!  Please, dear!”

“But you don’t know anything about babies.”

“I know enough not to give them pork and cabbage.  I can put the little thing to sleep in Just’s crib.  It’s up in the attic.  You can get it down.  Jeff, we must!”

But Jeff still held her firmly by the arm.  “Girl, you’re crazy!  If you once take her, you’ve got her on your hands.  Annie has no relations.  You told me that yourself.  The child’ll have to go to an asylum.  It’s a good thing that husband of hers is dead.  If he wasn’t, you’d have some cause to be worried.”

“Jeff,” said Charlotte, pleadingly, “you must let me do what I think is right.  I couldn’t sleep, thinking of little Ellen to-night.  Besides, when Annie was worrying about her Thursday, I as much as promised we’d see that no harm came to the baby.”

Jeff relaxed his hold.  “I never saw such a girl!” he grumbled.  “As if you hadn’t things enough on your shoulders already, without adopting other people’s kids!”

* * * * *

Dr. Andrew Churchill opened the door which led from the room of one of his patients into the small, slenderly furnished living-room of the tiny house which had been her home.  It was her home no longer.  Doctor Churchill had just lost his first patient in private practice.

In the room were several women, gathered about a baby not yet two years old.  Over the child a subdued but excited discussion was being held, as to who should take home and, for the present, care for poor Annie Donohue’s orphan baby.

Doctor Churchill closed the door behind him and stood for a moment, looking down at the baby, a pretty little girl with a pair of big frightened blue eyes.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to be the one,” said the youngest woman of the company, with a sigh.  “You’re all worse fixed than I am, and I guess we can make room for her somehow, till it’s decided what to do with her.  Poor Mis’ Donohue’s child has got to stay somewhere to-night besides here, that I do say.”

“Well, that’s kind of you, Mary, and we’ll all lend a hand to help you out.  I’ll bring over some extra milk I can spare and——­”

A sudden draft of January air made everybody turn.  A girlish figure, in a big dark cape with a scarlet lining which seemed to reflect the colour from a face brilliant with frost-bloom, stood in the outer door.  The next instant Charlotte Birch, closing the door softly behind her, had crossed the room and was addressing the women, in low quick tones.  The doctor she did not seem to notice.