Mr. Winthrop cast a look on it that might have annihilated a much stronger specimen of humanity; but the father, as I supposed him to be, intercepted the wrathful gaze, and his face, already sorrowful looking, became more distressed than ever.

I waited impatiently for some older woman to go to his relief; but men and women alike seemed to regard the little waif with displeasure; so at last slipping swiftly out of my seat lest Mr. Winthrop might intercept me, I went straight to the poor fellow’s relief.

“What is the matter with the baby?” I asked, as sympathetically as I could.

“He is hungry, and they have taken his food by mistake, I am afraid, to the baggage car.”

“May I take care of him while you go for it?”

“If you only would, I would be so grateful.”

I sat down and he put the bit of vocality in my arms, and then hastened after its dinner.  I glanced towards Mr. Winthrop.  I fancied that his face expressed volumes of shocked proprieties; so I quickly withdrew my gaze, since it was not at all comforting, and devoted myself exclusively to the poor little baby.  Its clothing had got all awry, its hands were blue with cold, and the tears from its pretty, blurred eyes were running in a copious stream.  I dried its face, took off its cap and cloak, and got its garments nicely straightened out, and then to complete the cure, for want of something better, gave it my long suffering watch to nibble.  The little creature may have recognized the soothing effect of a woman’s hands, or it may have been the bright tick, tick which it was gazing at now with pleased expression, and with its untutored tongue was already trying to imitate.  What the cause was I could not say; but when the father returned, silence reigned in the car so far as his offspring was concerned.  His face brightened perceptibly.  “It does seem as if a baby knew a woman’s touch,” he said, with such a sigh of relief.

“They know when their clothes are comfortable and their hands warm.”

“His mother always attended to him.  He and I were only playfellows.”

“Where is his mother now?” I asked, no longer able to restrain my curiosity.

“In the freight room.”  His eyes filled with tears.

“Was it her coffin I saw in the hearse awhile ago?”

“Yes.”

“Oh I am so sorry;” and I too burst into tears.  He busied himself getting a spirit lamp lighted, and soon the baby’s milk was simmering, and almost before good humor had been restored throughout the car the baby had comfortably dined, and gone off into a refreshing slumber.  I made him a snug little bed out of rugs and shawls, and laid him down in blissful unconsciousness of the cold, still form, even more unconscious than he, in the adjoining freight room.

The passengers as well as Mr. Winthrop had been watching me curiously, and my sudden burst of tears had mystified them.

Once the baby was nicely settled to its nap I returned to my seat.  Mrs. Flaxman eagerly asked why there was no woman to look after the baby.  I saw Mr. Winthrop listening, as if interested also in the strange phenomenon of a man in attendance alone on an infant.