CHAPTER XIV – ANOTHER YEAR AT SCHOOL
The summer vacation passed quickly for Polly and Eleanor, and September came in with wonderful Autumn weather, when riding and mountain-climbing were just the thing. However, all such outings ended to plan for the return to New York.
A letter had arrived from Mr. Fabian, in which he spoke of his delightful visit with his wife and daughter. They had gone to various places in Europe and England, inspecting and studying all the famous old works of art, and the ancient buildings that made fitting caskets for these rare curios.
“When I read this letter, of all Mr. Fabian has done with his Summer, I feel guilty,” said Polly to her friend, Nolla.
“Why should you? We had to rest and drop all idea of study so’s to be fresh for this year’s work. Didn’t we do it?”
“Yes, we rested, all right, Nolla; but it seems we might have done some of the work we planned to do, before we left New York. There is that chest with our colors, paper and other things – we never as much as unlocked it.”
“Polly, I can paint any sort of drapery you want, and in any light or shadow. I can paint a vase, a chair or a lamp; I can draw a hall, or a room, or a window. What more do you want? Why should we sit down and make loads of these things all summer, when we know how to do the work, already?”
“I don’t know, Nolla, except that we ought to practise!”
“Pooh! I’m ready for all the work they want to pile up on me, now and I’m glad I’ve been so lazy all summer.”
“To tell the truth, Nolla, I am more than ready to work with all my heart. I feel as if I would dry up if I played any more,” admitted Polly, laughingly.
With this desire to again take up their studies in New York, the girls left Pebbly Pit the second week in September. By the last of the month, they were eagerly planning with Mr. Fabian for the new year’s school work in art and decoration.
“I have a pleasant surprise for you, girls,” announced Mr. Fabian, after greetings were exchanged. They all sat under the locust tree in the little yard of the Studio.
“‘On with the dance,’” laughed Eleanor.
“As you know, I landed in New York the first week of September, and found most of my friends still away in the country. But Mr. Dalken was in evidence, as ever, eager to offer me his hospitality, until I located for the Winter.
“We sat in the medieval library of his apartment, and I remarked, casually, at the unusual size of his rooms.
“‘Yes,’ replied he. ‘That’s the advantage of leasing one of the old-fashioned apartments not so far uptown. One gets the benefit of being near the center of activities in the city, and at the same time one can have the great rooms once occupied by the old gentry of the town.’
“‘What a splendid room for gatherings,’ I said, never dreaming of his inspiration.
“‘Seeing that you are looking for a suitable room in which to conduct your little private class of art decorators, why not use this library? I have all kinds of reference books in the cases and I am so seldom at home in the early part of the evening that you will be undisturbed.’
“I was astonished, as you may imagine, and I said, ‘But, Mr. Dalken, we couldn’t think of using this room and the apartment, without some return for your kindness.’
“He laughed. ‘What do I want of rent or its equivalent? I am only too glad to do you and those charming students of yours a good turn. You see, I still owe Polly and Eleanor a great balance which can never be paid. Were it not for those two girls I would not have a child – even though I seldom see my little one.’
“I felt that he was so earnest about the offer that I said we would talk it over with Mr. Ashby and let him judge. Not that I did not see the advantage of using the rooms, but I wanted an impartial friend of Mr. Dalken’s to decide whether or no he might regret the generous offer, later; and then not care to tell us that we bothered him with our regular classes three nights a week.
“So we visited the Ashbys the following evening, and to my amazement, Mr. Ashby was enthusiastic over the plan. He said: ‘Now you’ve started out right, Dalk, and to prove how much I think of your offer, I am going to have Ruth join the class this year – if Mr. Fabian will take her. It might be rather nice to have Elizabeth join the class, also, even though she may not show any talent for the work.’
“‘Now, Ashby, you must pardon me if I speak frankly,’ Mr. Dalken then said. ‘One of the main reasons for Mr. Fabian’s resignation from Cooper, and giving all his valuable time to a small class, is to urge those talented ones forward. If my little girl, who detests application to study of any sort, were to join this class, the basic idea would be ruined. The class would be held back by one delinquent. But I appreciate your motive in suggesting a way that I might enjoy the companionship of Elizabeth so often, without the tyranny and incompatibility of her mother’s temper.’
“Mr. Ashby colored, as he thought he had been diplomatic in his hint,” concluded Mr. Fabian. “So now it is settled that Ruth Ashby joins our art class, this year, and we will meet at Mr. Dalken’s rooms for our work. That is nice for you girls, as it is only a short walk of a few blocks from the Studio.”
“Nice for us – why, it is just scrumptious!” exclaimed Eleanor.
“And such a wonderful environment as that library, will give us inspiration, too,” added Polly. “I never did see such a kind man as Mr. Dalken! If I had my way to accomplish it, I’d shower all the joys and successes in heaven or earth upon his generous heart.”
“He is great and good, and it seems as if justice must be sleeping, when such a man must suffer alone because of a silly moth of a wife. If he would only hearken to his friends and seek freedom from such galling bonds! but he doesn’t think divorce ever righted a wrong, and he still hopes he can bring Mrs. Dalken to a sense of her family-obligations and gratitude, for all she has been so unselfishly given. Poor fellow!” Mr. Fabian shook his head despondently over their benefactor’s future.
“Polly and I never knew what was the trouble in the Dalken family, Mr. Fabian, but what we have seen and known of our dear friend, I’m sure that he was never to blame for it,” said Eleanor, defensively.
“I never care to gossip or to repeat a story, children, but now I think you ought to know why Mr. Dalken lives alone so much as he does. If we are to use his rooms, you must know what a magnificent character he is, and then should you hear any disagreeable gossip that can be traced to his wife, you will understand the situation.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Fabian, will never be repeated by either Nolla or me,” promised Polly, solemnly.
“I know it, that is why I feel I ought to tell you.
“Mr. Dalken, as you know, is a descendant of one of the oldest Dutch Settlers in America. His family, from olden times down to the present day, were patriotic and loyal Americans. He is as staunch an American as you will find, anywhere.
“Mrs. Dalken was a poor girl, and not over-brilliant. But Mr. Dalken admired her prettiness when she was a young miss, and when he was but a slip of a youth. They went to entertainments together in the small town where they both lived, and enjoyed each other’s company for two or three years.
“Then the young man went to college and saw the world. He realized how superficial Amy Lathrop was, and as time went by, he would have forgotten her completely, had she not kept up her side of the correspondence. And gradually a suggestive note crept into her letters.
“When his college days were over, young Dalken returned to his birth-place to settle the country estate that was his. Then he met Amy again, and she found him so chivalrous that it was an easy matter to give him to understand that she had waited for him these five years – that she had been the soul of faithfulness.
“Without consulting his friends, or mentioning the matter to others in the town, he became engaged to her on the claim from her, that it had so been understood before he went to college.
“Well, they were married, one day, and then our poor friend’s martyrdom began. Amy Dalken was of no use in anything or in any way. True, she had two children, but it may have been much better had she never become a mother. She had no affection for them or the father, and only thought of spending money and enjoying herself to the utmost.
“Dalken was wealthy before he married Amy, and his alert mind coupled with his unusual foresightedness in finance soon rolled up fortunes for him. His wife spent money like water, and was sought after by the vultures of society – those who fawn and fondle as long as they can get something out of the victim.
“Mrs. Dalken’s balls and bridge-parties were famous – I might say, notorious – for at the former the extravagance was a matter of newspaper comment, and at the latter, the stakes were so high that others lifted their eyebrows at the losses and gains.
“Little Billie Dalken was eighteen months old, and the joy of our good friend’s life, when a dreadful thing happened. Billie was a chubby, handsome little chap exactly like his father – the same intelligent brown eyes, the same fine features, and he was unusually clever and large for his age.
“Mr. Dalken had been called to Washington on business one day, and that same day his wife was about to give a grand dinner and bridge, later. There were plenty of servants in the household, but on such an occasion everyone was busy with the extra work. Billie’s own nurse gave him his supper and was about to put him to bed when she discovered a wheezing sound in his throat. She feared another attack of croup. She was about to apply the remedies she knew of, when Mrs. Dalken’s maid came to the nursery.
“‘The mistress says you are to go to her at once and I am to sit with the baby for a while. She wants her head massaged because it aches so!’
“And the nurse answered as she thought proper, ‘Go and tell your mistress that Billie has a bad cold and I must remain to take care of him.’
“The maid tossed her head and left the room. She hadn’t any desire to remain with a baby, especially if it was wheezing and beginning to cough. So she may have exaggerated the reply somewhat. However, that did not excuse Mrs. Dalken from her next act. She was furious and sent the butler to the nursery to pay off the nurse and see that she left the house at once!
“Then she sent the parlor-maid to sit in the nursery with the child. That dinner was a great success, but just before the card-party began, the maid sent down word that Mrs. Dalken was to come up to the nursery at once, and see what ailed the baby – he was so red in the face and had a fever, she said.
“Mrs. Dalken whispered a reply: ‘I’ll be up as soon as I can get the tables started.’ Then she never gave it another thought.
“Three times during that evening the frightened parlor-maid sent down for the mother to come up. And three times the hostess smiled and nodded and then forgot all about the call. Before midnight, the boy began choking and gagging and the hysterical maid ran back and forth hoping to find the butler, or someone, who would help in this extremity.
“Every servant in the house was busy serving drinks, cards, or cigarettes, and none had time to call up a doctor. Then the daring maid telephoned for a doctor she knew. But he lived so far uptown that it took half an hour to arrive at the house.
“Before he got there, little Billie Dalken was sleeping in the last long rest. No one was with him but the parlor-maid when he strangled to death; but the awful contortions of his face and body showed the suffering he endured during the convulsions.
“Mr. Dalken came home early in the morning, the Washington business having been successfully consummated without any loss of time. It was not yet seven o’clock, but everyone in the house seemed astir. The heavy fumes of smoke and the aftermath of a riotous night’s play were evident throughout the first floor rooms. He smiled sardonically at it all, then rushed upstairs two steps at a time to peep at his beloved children.
“Elizabeth was weeping fearfully in her little crib that stood in the room connecting with the nursery. The moment she saw her father she screamed with relief.
“‘Oh, Daddy! Billie’s so twisted and queer – and he won’t answer when I call him.’
“Poor Dalken had a sudden premonition of catastrophe and rushed into the nursery. He almost collapsed at what he saw there. A strange woman was about to take up the stiff little form and do for it what a loving mother should reverently insist upon doing.
“The father, with a broken heart, took his beloved boy and prepared him for his last resting-place. All through the three days elapsing after the night of Billie’s death, Mrs. Dalken remained locked in her boudoir, her maid seeing that the smelling salts were handy whenever her lady called for them. Between the visits of condolence from her intimates, and the fittings of the deep mourning, the mother was kept too busy to meet her husband, or watch with the remains of her baby.
“But after the funeral (that also buried most of Dalken’s joy in living) he insisted upon a serious talk with his butterfly wife. She promised everything, even to giving up her gambling games, if he would but refrain from the publicity of the cause of Billie’s death and the subsequent separation. She used her sharpest weapon to gain her point – Elizabeth.
“So several more months went by, but the poor man was a mere money-machine in his own home. Even his little daughter began to believe that society was everything, and love or home-ties only a necessity that interfered with one’s pet pleasures and freedom.
“Without consulting her husband, Mrs. Dalken planned to visit Europe with a party of friends. To keep her grasp on her money-supplier she took Elizabeth with her. A nurse looked after the girl. She remained abroad for more than a year, and when she returned she went directly to a fashionable hotel instead of seeing that her home was reopened in New York.
“She had ordered everything swathed and packed for the time she was abroad, and had left but two rooms livable for the owner and master of the magnificent dwelling.
“Dalken lived there in gloomy sorrow for a few months and finally his friends insisted upon his going to the Club where he could meet cheerful companions and stop brooding over his irreparable loss.
“Mrs. Dalken was in no hurry to reopen her home, and all that Winter she remained at the hotel, while her husband stopped at his club. She allowed him to call upon her two or three times a week, when others were present, and she not only accepted all the checks he offered her, but ran up fearful debts everywhere. He was permitted to take Elizabeth out at certain times, but Mrs. Dalken was clever enough to keep hold on the girl, as she knew it was her only hope of keeping her clutch on her provider.
“Just after the Holidays, that season, she went to Palm Beach, but she entered Elizabeth in a boarding school out of the city. Dalken tried, in many ways, to learn where his child was, but he had no success in his search.
“Then he wired his wife that she must turn over the girl to him while she was running around, or he would instantly stop her income and sue her for desertion. Then she came back to New York and took Elizabeth out of school again, but matters got worse and worse for poor Dalken. Finally his dear friends, who loved him for what he was and is, persuaded him to sue for a legal separation. They hoped Mrs. Dalken would turn over the girl whom she had no natural love for, to the father, as a hostage.
“But she was a wise woman, by this time. She accepted the separation without demur, but refused to give up Elizabeth. It was then agreed that the girl might choose which one of the parents she preferred to live with. Having had so many years of life with her mother, the girl became like her – selfish, vain, and arrogant. No love or gratitude was found in her character.
“Just at this time, Mr. Dalken was taken very ill, and his mother (who is a dear, you will find, when you meet her) came from England to nurse him. He was ill for more than a year, so Elizabeth chose to remain with her mother for the time being.
“Mrs. Dalken, Senior, took her only child back to England with her, as soon as he could travel, and there she kept him well-nursed and cared for, in her cousin’s English country-house, until he had regained his strength and fairly good health. Then mother and son went to the Continent to visit the scenes of the famous battle-fields, and then on to the Riviera for a month.
“The wise mother knew that taking Mr. Dalken’s thoughts from his own miserable state, and making him think of other’s woes, would the sooner brace him up to face his life-problem. And so it was.
“Elizabeth elected to remain with her frivolous mother but Mr. Dalken supports her handsomely, and often bribes her to spend an afternoon or evening with him, by having a valuable gift awaiting her coming. Mr. Ashby, and other friends, have advised Dalken against this pernicious way of baiting the inclinations of the girl, but he says they do not know his heart-hunger, and so cannot judge his actions.”
“Oh, Mr. Fabian! Our poor, dear Mr. Dalken!” sobbed Polly, when the speaker had ended his story.
“If I ever meet that horrid woman I shall tear her hair out, I know I shall!” wept Eleanor, vehemently.
“If only we could do something, Nolla, to make up to our dear Dalk, for all his sorrow,” sighed Polly, drying her eyes.
“You can love him the more for this story, girls, but do not refer to it, as he is still tender over his loss.”
CHAPTER XV – THE FOUNDLING
The sad story told the girls, about their friend Mr. Dalken, filled them with love and compassion for the great-hearted man, and they wondered how they could do something for him that would not only show their appreciation of his kindness to them, but at the same time give him pleasure or happiness. But there seemed no material thing that he needed, and really, nothing that one could do for him.
“There must be times when he sits alone brooding over his boy and how different things might have been had he married a different type of woman,” remarked Eleanor, one evening, after leaving their new class-room.
“Yes; but it seems to me he should have been able to see through such a shallow thing as that woman must have been, when he returned from college and found her apparently waiting for him,” Polly replied.
“But he’s so tender-hearted, you see, he couldn’t bear to give her any pain or trouble. That must have been the only reason why he allowed her to get him.”
“I suppose so. Why, even now, he is an easy prey to the scheming people who know he has barrels of money, and who simply pretend to be friendly for what they can get out of him.”
“It’s too bad he can’t be satisfied with just Mr. Ashby and Mr. Fabian for man friends, and we few women for his women friends,” mused Eleanor. “We’d love him for himself.”
Polly smiled. “Wouldn’t you and I give him a gay time – with high-school keeping us employed every week-day, and art class every other night in the week, to say nothing of lectures, exhibitions, and other things that Mr. Fabian has us do, in line with our work.”
The two girls had crossed Madison and Fourth avenues by this time, and were slowly walking down the street towards the Studio. It was a beautiful Fall night, and the moon was almost full, hence they were in no hurry to reach home and go indoors.
“I hear Anne singing – she must have company,” said Polly as they neared the house.
“Yes; the windows are open in the living-room, and I can peep under the shades and see Anne at the piano,” whispered Eleanor.
Just then the breeze wafted one of the shades back from the window, and the girls recognised Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Latimer as the guests of Anne.
“Let’s hurry in!” exclaimed Eleanor, suddenly turning from the front window and darting into the vestibule.
The outside door was open wide, and as Eleanor ran up the one step that raised the tiled entrance from the sidewalk, she stumbled over a soft bundle that seemed pushed against the wall.
By this time, Polly also reached the vestibule, but the inside door being closed and locked for protection, it was too dark in the vestibule for either of the girls to see what the huge bundle contained.
“It feels like a bundle of old clothes. Maybe some servant hid it here for a time – she may be going to come back for it,” observed Eleanor, prodding the bundle with her foot.
But to the surprise of both girls, a little squeal issued from the roll. In the semi-darkness, they stood spell-bound and gazed at each other.
“It’s a baby – of all things!” cried Polly, hastily trying the handle of the door.
“Ring – ring the bell like mad. I’ll pick it up!” Eleanor exclaimed, excitably.
“Open the door – Anne – hurry up! We’ve found a baby!” called Polly, leaning over the iron rail that projected over the area door, in front of the windows.
Both girls forgot that they had latch keys, but Mrs. Evans sat nearest the window where Polly stood, and quickly answered her call. Eleanor, meanwhile, had carefully picked up the rolled-up baby and, the moment the door was flung open, carried it indoors.
“Where did you find it?” exclaimed four amazed women.
“Right at our door – in the vestibule,” said Eleanor, placing her bundle on the divan and proceeding to open it.
“Wasn’t anyone in sight?” asked Mrs. Latimer, cautiously.
“Not that we noticed; but, of course, we never thought to look, when we found what was in the bundle,” explained Polly, nervously eager to assist Eleanor in what she was doing.
Before the swaddling blankets were released from the baby, it began to utter baby-talk. The females, grouped closely in front of the divan, smiled appreciatively.
Finally the last wrapper, which was of mosquito netting, came off, and there lay a chubby little fellow of about fifteen months. He had a fist in his mouth, and with the other dimpled hand he clutched at Polly’s hair as she leaned over him.
“Oh! Isn’t he a darling! He must belong to a neighbor!” exclaimed Mrs. Stewart.
“He certainly is not starved or poorly cared for,” added Mrs. Evans, with experienced voice.
“But he only has on his nightie! Not another stitch to be found,” said Anne, carefully rolling the baby over to see if he had any clothes under him.
“There’s a note – pinned on the blanket!” cried Polly, anxiously removing the pin and taking the paper over to the light.
“It says – just one word – ‘Billy.’ Did you ever!” exclaimed Polly, glancing from one to the other of the friends who were waiting expectantly to hear about the boy.
“Let’s see!” demanded Eleanor, frowning at such a short explanation.
Polly handed the slip of paper to her friend and joined Anne at the divan where she was divesting the boy of his nightie to see if further clues might be found. About his fat neck was a very fine gold chain, and suspended from that was a tiny flat heart-shaped locket. It did not open, but on the plain gold face was a monogram of three letters: B – D – W – .
“Now we’ve got something to work on! ‘B’ stands for Billy, of course, but what can ‘D’ and ‘W’ mean?” Eleanor said excitedly.
“No child is christened ‘Billy,’” Anne contradicted. “He would be ‘William’ – and that is what the ‘W’ is for. Children are nicknamed ‘Billy’ or ‘Willy’ later. Now his middle and last name must begin with the ‘B’ and ‘D’ – or vice versa.”
“Shake out the blankets carefully – perhaps another paper is pinned to one of them,” said Polly, eagerly.
But there was no other message in the blankets.
“Let’s take off his flannel shirt! There may be something there,” ventured Mrs. Stewart.
In less than a minute, the pins were out and the woven shirt of Merino was removed, but no further information rewarded the anxious seekers. So the shirt was carefully replaced and the boy’s nightie slipped over his head again.
“It’s all hand-made of fine linen,” remarked Mrs. Latimer, as she felt of the hem at the bottom.
“And one can see that he is no slum child,” added Mrs. Evans.
“Who can he be? and why should anyone want to leave him?” were the perplexing questions Polly asked of the others.
They all shook their heads and wondered. But the boy had no use for such condolences; he crawled over the divan and when he found not what he was in search of, he screwed up his dimpled face and began a lusty call.
Anne instantly took him up and began to chirp to him. He smiled a cheerful thanks and showed eight little front teeth. That brought all his new friends to his feet – metaphorically speaking.
“Isn’t he a dear!” declared Mrs. Stewart to no one in particular.
“Yes, but we have to advertise him at once. It may be that a villain kidnapped him and ran away with him just to get a reward. He may have been seen, or chased by the police, and then dropped the baby in our vestibule,” said Mrs. Latimer.
Anne laughed. “Which analysis shows that one of us married a lawyer – Mrs. Latimer gives us good advice.”
“Or he may belong to a young mother who cannot longer earn a living for him,” added Mrs. Stewart.
“That’s not likely, mother,” returned Anne. “As the child would look thin and sickly if a mother found it hard to support it. I rather think it is a babe that belongs to some distracted mother in the neighborhood. He has evidently been put to bed for the night. Possibly a vindictive nurse-girl took him from his home to make his parents seek for him and then left him at the most convenient door.”
“Anne’s reason sounds the most plausible, and we’d better ’phone the police-stations at once. Billy’s parents may even now be wild with despair, for we do not know how long he was in the vestibule. All we know is, he was not there when we came in, about eight o’clock,” said Mrs. Evans.
So she telephoned the police-stations, near by, and also asked the morning papers to run a short notice under a suitable caption. Before she had finished this work, however, Master Billy began his complaints again, and now he was beginning to look as impatient as such a good-natured baby could.
“Maybe he’s hungry?” suddenly suggested Mrs. Stewart.
“That’s just what ails him – but we haven’t any bottle!” exclaimed Mrs. Evans.
“Perhaps he drinks from a cup – he is old enough to have been weaned, you know,” ventured Mrs. Latimer.
A cup of warmed milk was brought in short order, and Mrs. Stewart held it out to Anne, as she was still holding the baby. The moment Billy saw the cup, he almost leaped from Anne’s arms, and immediately began gurgling for very glee.
Everyone laughed at his antics, and Anne was about to hold the cup to his lips, when two fat hands clutched at it in a hungry endeavor to reach the contents. Of course, part of the milk spilled on his nightie but the remainder he drank greedily.
“He’s well-trained – whoever he is. I should say that he has had every attention in the past, to have him act like this at his age,” said Mrs. Latimer.
“But we don’t know how old he is. He may be months older than we thought for,” argued Mrs. Evans.
“Well, he isn’t more than eighteen months at the most,” declared Mrs. Stewart.
Polly and Eleanor stood silently by listening to these experienced mothers, but Anne smiled indulgently at them, and kept her opinions to herself.
Dr. Evans and Mr. Latimer stopped for their wives, and when they had heard and been shown the fine boy, they gave their masculine opinions.
“A baby who was boarded out, and the parents hadn’t paid up recently. So the woman left him on the first door-step to get rid of him,” was the doctor’s verdict.
“There spoke the doctor who knows of such cases,” said Anne.
“That isn’t it, however,” remarked Mr. Latimer. “I am of the opinion that this child is of wealthy parentage. He likely is a stumbling-block for some heirs, who wish him safely out of the way so they may claim the estate.”
Anne laughed again. “There speaks the attorney. But you should have had the jealous heirs remove this monogramed locket before they tried to get rid of all evidence of a barrier to their inheritance.”
“Reckon we’d better stop romancing and put Billy to bed,” said Polly, in a matter-of-fact voice.
Her common sense caused a general laugh, and Dr. Evans added: “Well, ladies! Come on, if we are to get home to-night.”
With a last look at the sleepy cherub, and a good-night to the friends living in the Studio, the four New Yorkers went out.
“Where shall he sleep to-night?” asked Anne.
“Let me have him?” cried Polly.
“Oh – I found him first – let me have him,” begged Eleanor.
“No, girls; babies should sleep absolutely alone. I will get a drawer from the high-boy and rig him up a nice little bed therein. To-morrow night he will be in his own home, most likely,” explained Mrs. Stewart.
So saying, she hurried upstairs, and in a short time returned, carrying the drawer. Anne and the two girls helped cushion it softly, and then they placed Billy in it.
He was asleep almost before the bed was ready, and the moment his head sank into the soft pillow, he closed his eyes.
“He seems unusually good, Anne,” ventured Mrs. Stewart, as the four foster mothers stood gazing down at the flushed little baby-face.
“And very pretty for a young child,” added Anne.
“Well,” sighed Polly, “I suppose we’ll have to hand him back in the morning.”
“Some time during the night, most likely,” grumbled Eleanor. “The police will tell his folks where he is, and they will be at our door ten minutes later.”
But no one called for Billy, that night, and in the morning the papers told the story of the foundling. A minute description of his appearance and clothing was given, and the telephone number of the family where he was to be found. Mrs. Evans had wisely refrained from giving any names of the tenants of the Studio.
Before seven o’clock that morning, the telephone began ringing. Anne answered it, but described the baby left on their door-step differently from what the anxious mother on the other end of the wire had expected.
By eight-thirty, the telephone had called Anne or Polly five times. At last Polly said: “My goodness! how can five mothers lose boys like ours in one evening? Can’t they take care of them?”