When the baby
was dried and dressed and temporarily quieted with another bottle she
was as limp as a rag.
"What must I do with it tonight, Susan?"
A baby by day was dreadful enough; a baby by night was unthinkable.
"Set the basket on a chair by your bed and keep it covered. You will
have to feed it once or twice in the night, so you would better take the
oil heater upstairs. If you cannot manage it call me and I will go,
doctor or no doctor."
"But, Susan, if it cries?"
The baby, however, did not cry. It was surprisingly good--perhaps
because its poor little stomach was filled with proper food. It slept
most of the night but Rilla did not. She was afraid to go to sleep for
fear something would happen to the baby. She prepared its three o'clock
ration with a grim determination that she would not call Susan. Oh, was
she dreaming? Was it really she, Rilla Blythe, who had got into this
absurd predicament? She did not care if the Germans were near Paris--
she did not care if they were in Paris--if only the baby wouldn't cry
or choke or smother or have convulsions. Babies did have convulsions,
didn't they? Oh, why had she forgotten to ask Susan what she must do if
the baby had convulsions? She reflected rather bitterly that father was
very considerate of mother's and Susan's health, but what about hers?
Did he think she could continue to exist if she never got any sleep? But
she was not going to back down now--not she.
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