“Why don’t you open the door, Eva?”

“Why don’t you?  It’s your place.”

“But, doggone it, cain’t you see—­I mean feel—­that I ain’t got hardly any clothes on?  I’d ketch my death o’ cold, an’ besides—­”

“Well, I ain’t got as much on as you have.  You got socks on an’—­”

“But supposin’ it’s a woman,” protested he.  “You wouldn’t want a woman to see me lookin’ like this, would you?  Go ahead an’—­”

“I suppose you’d like to have a man see me like this.  I ain’t used to receivin’ men in—­but, say, whoever it was, is gone.  Didn’t you hear the steps?  Open the door, Anderson.  See what it is.”

And so, after much urging, Anderson Crow unbolted his front door and turned the knob.  The wind did the rest.  It almost blew the door off its hinges, carrying Mr. and Mrs. Crow back against the wall.  A gale of snow swept over them.

“Gee!” gasped Anderson, crimping his toes.  Mrs. Crow was peering under his arm.

“Look there!” she cried.  Close to the door a large bundle was lying.

“A present from some one!” speculated Mr. Crow; but some seconds passed before he stooped to pick it up.  “Funny time fer Santy to be callin’ ’round.  Wonder if he thinks it’s next Christmas.”

“Be careful, Anderson; mebby it’s an infernal machine!” cried his wife.

“Well, it’s loaded, ’y ginger,” he grunted as straightened up in the face of the gale.  “Shut the door, Eva!  Cain’t you see it’s snowin’?”

“I’ll bet it was Joe Ramsey leavin’ a sack o’ hickor’ nuts fer us,” she said eagerly, slamming the door.

“You better bolt the door.  He might change his mind an’ come back fer ‘em,” observed her husband.  “It don’t feel like hickor’ nuts.  Why, Eva, it’s a baskit—­a reg’lar clothes baskit.  What in thunder do—­”

“Let’s get a light out by the kitchen fire.  It’s too cold in here.”

Together they sped to the kitchen with the mysterious offering from the blizzard.  There was a fire in the stove, which Anderson replenished, while Eva began to remove the blankets and packing from the basket, which she had placed on the hearth.  Anderson looked on eagerly.

“Lord!” fell from the lips of both as the contents of the basket were exposed to their gaze.

A baby, alive and warm, lay packed in the blankets, sound asleep and happy.  For an interminable length of time the Crows, en dishabille, stood and gazed open-mouthed and awed at the little stranger.  Ten minutes later, after the ejaculations and surmises, after the tears and expletives, after the whole house had been aroused, Anderson Crow was plunging amiably but aimlessly through the snowstorm in search of the heartless wretch who had deposited the infant on his doorstep.  His top boots scuttled up and down the street, through yards and barn lots for an hour, but despite the fact that he carried his dark lantern and trailed like an Indian bloodhound, he found no