" But the visitors,
failing to catch the appeal, not only did not go away, but moved nearer.
"Why, it's Annie Donohue's baby!" cried Celia, and shrieked the
information into Lanse's ear. His expression of disfavour relaxed a
degree, but he still looked preternaturally severe. Celia hobbled over
to the baby, and sitting down in a rocking-chair, held out her arms. But
Charlotte shook her head and motioned imperatively toward the door.
At this instant Jeff, in a red bathrobe, appeared in the doorway,
grasped the situation, nodded assurance to Charlotte, and hauled his
elder brother across the hall into his own room, where he closed the
door and explained in a few terse sentences:
"Annie died last night--to-night. We heard of it late, and Charlotte
thought she wouldn't disturb anybody. The doctor was there. He carried
the baby home. We couldn't leave her there. She was scared to death. She
knows Fiddle, and she'll grow quiet now if you people don't stand round
and insist on explanations being roared at you."
"But we can't keep a baby here," began Lanse, who had come home late,
unusually tired, and was feeling the customary masculine displeasure at
having his hard-earned rest broken--a sensation which at the moment took
precedence over any more humanitarian emotions.
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