“Why, it’s Annie Donohue’s baby!” cried Celia, and shrieked the information into Lanse’s ear.  His expression of disfavour relaxed a degree, but he still looked preternaturally severe.  Celia hobbled over to the baby, and sitting down in a rocking-chair, held out her arms.  But Charlotte shook her head and motioned imperatively toward the door.

At this instant Jeff, in a red bathrobe, appeared in the doorway, grasped the situation, nodded assurance to Charlotte, and hauled his elder brother across the hall into his own room, where he closed the door and explained in a few terse sentences: 

“Annie died last night—­to-night.  We heard of it late, and Charlotte thought she wouldn’t disturb anybody.  The doctor was there.  He carried the baby home.  We couldn’t leave her there.  She was scared to death.  She knows Fiddle, and she’ll grow quiet now if you people don’t stand round and insist on explanations being roared at you.”

“But we can’t keep a baby here,” began Lanse, who had come home late, unusually tired, and was feeling the customary masculine displeasure at having his hard-earned rest broken—­a sensation which at the moment took precedence over any more humanitarian emotions.

“We don’t have to settle that to-night, do we?” demanded Jeff, with scorn.  “Hasn’t the poor girl got enough on her hands without having you scowl at her for trying to do the good Samaritan act—­at three o’clock in the morning?”

Jeff next turned his attention to Celia.  He went into Charlotte’s room, picked up his elder sister without saying “by your leave,” and carried her off to her own bed.

“But, Jeff, I could help Charlotte,” Celia remonstrated.  “The poor baby may be sick.”

“Don’t believe it.  She’s simply scared stiff at kimonos and pajamas and bathrobes stalking round her in a strange house.  Charlotte can cool her down if anybody can.  If she can’t, I’ll call the doctor.  Now go to sleep.  Charlotte and I will man the ship to-night, and in the morning you can go to work making duds for the baby.  It didn’t have anything to wear round it but a summer cape and Mrs. O’Neill’s plaid shawl.”

This artful allusion touched Celia’s tender heart and set her mind at work, as Jeff had meant it should; so putting out her light, he slipped away to Charlotte, exulting in having so promptly fixed things for her.

But Charlotte met him with anxious eyes.  The baby was still screaming.

“See how she stiffens every now and then, and holds her breath till I think she’ll never breathe again!” she called in his ear.  “I do really think you’d better call Mrs. Fields.  You can wake her with a knock on her window.  She sleeps in the little wing down-stairs.”

As he hurried down the hall, the door of Captain Rayburn’s room opened, and Jeff met the quiet question, “What’s up, lad?”

He stopped an instant to explain, encountered prompt sympathy, and laid a hasty injunction upon his uncle not to attempt to assist Charlotte in her dilemma.  That gentleman hobbled back to bed, smiling tenderly to himself in the dark—­why, if he had seen him, Jeff never would have been able to guess.