Conover. She put away her pipe and
took an unblushing swig from a black bottle she produced from a shelf
near her. "It's my opinion the kid won't live long. It's sickly. Min
never had no gimp and I guess it hain't either. Likely it won't trouble
any one long and good riddance, sez I."
Rilla drew the blanket down a little farther.
"Why, the baby isn't dressed!" she exclaimed, in a shocked tone.
"Who was to dress him I'd like to know," demanded Mrs. Conover
truculently. "I hadn't time--took me all the time there was looking
after Min. 'Sides, as I told yez, I don't know nithing about kids. Old
Mrs. Billy Crawford, she was here when it was born and she washed it and
rolled it up in that flannel, and Jen she's tended it a bit since. The
critter is warm enough. This weather would melt a brass monkey."
Rilla was silent, looking down at the crying baby. She had never
encountered any of the tragedies of life before and this one smote her
to the core of her heart. The thought of the poor mother going down into
the valley of the shadow alone, fretting about her baby, with no one
near but this abominable old woman, hurt her terribly. If she had only
come a little sooner! Yet what could she have done--what could she do
now? She didn't know, but she must do something. She hated babies--but
she simply could not go away and leave that poor little creature with
Mrs.
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