And now, to make the matter worse, her fourth daughter, who had been named Abigail, suddenly took sick and died, and she also had four small children that must be cared for in some way.

The old woman, having taken the other twelve, could not well refuse to adopt these little orphans also.

“I may as well have sixteen as a dozen,” she said, with a sigh; “they will drive me crazy some day, anyhow, so a few more will not matter at all!”

Once more she sent for the carpenter, and bade him build a third addition to the house; and when it was completed she added four more cots to the dozen that were already in use.  The house presented a very queer appearance now, but she did not mind that so long as the babies were comfortable.

“I shall not have to build again,” she said; “and that is one satisfaction.  I have now no more daughters to die and leave me their children, and therefore I must make up my mind to do the best I can with the sixteen that have already been inflicted upon me in my old age.”

It was not long before all the grass about the house was trodden down, and the white gravel of the walks all thrown at the birds, and the flower beds trampled into shapeless masses by thirty-two little feet that ran about from morn till night.  But the old woman did not complain at this; her time was too much taken up with the babies for her to miss the grass and the flowers.

It cost so much money to clothe them that she decided to dress them all alike, so that they looked like the children of a regular orphan asylum.  And it cost so much to feed them that she was obliged to give them the plainest food; so there was bread-and-milk for breakfast and milk-and-bread for dinner and bread-and-broth for supper.  But it was a good and wholesome diet, and the children thrived and grew fat upon it.

One day a stranger came along the road, and when he saw the old woman’s house he began to laugh.

“What are you laughing at, sir?” asked the grandmother, who was sitting upon her doorsteps engaged in mending sixteen pairs of stockings.

“At your house,” the stranger replied; “it looks for all the world like a big shoe!”

“A shoe!” she said, in surprise.

“Why, yes.  The chimneys are shoe-straps, and the steps are the heel, and all those additions make the foot of the shoe.”

“Never mind,” said the woman; “it may be a shoe, but it is full of babies, and that makes it differ from most other shoes.”

But the Stranger went on to the village and told all he met that he had seen an old woman who lived in a shoe; and soon people came from all parts of the country to look at the queer house, and they usually went away laughing.