This, with a pillow in the bottom of it, was very comfortable, and instead of taking him home, I borrowed, in the evening, some baby night-clothes from Pomona, and set about preparing Pat for the night.
This Euphemia would not allow, but silently taking him from me, she put him to bed.
"To-morrow," she said, "you must positively take him away.

I wont stand it.

And in our room, too." "I didn't talk in that way about the baby you adopted," I said.
To this she made no answer, but went away to attend, as usual, to Pomona's baby, while its mother washed the dishes.
That night little Pat woke up, several times, and made things unpleasant by his wails.

On the first two occasions, I got up and walked him about, singing impromptu lines to the tune of "weak and wounded," but the third time, Euphemia herself arose, and declaring that that doleful tune was a great deal worse than the baby's crying, silenced him herself, and arranging his couch more comfortably, he troubled us no more.
In the morning, when I beheld the little pad of orange fur in the box, my heart almost misgave me, but as the day wore on, my courage rose again, and I gave myself up, almost entirely, to my new charge, composing a vast deal of blank verse, while walking him up and down the house.
Euphemia scolded and scolded, and said she would put on her hat and go for the mother.

But I told her the mother was dead, and that seemed to be an obstacle.