On my return I found Euphemia sitting in our room, with little Pat
on her lap. I was astonished at the change in the young rascal.
He was dressed, from head to foot, in a suit of clothes belonging
to Pomona's baby; the glowing fuzz on his head was brushed and made
as smooth as possible, while his little muslin sleeves were tied up
with blue ribbon.
I stood speechless at the sight.
"Don't he look nice?" said Euphemia, standing him up on her knees.
"It shows what good clothes will do. I'm glad I helped Pomona make
up so many. He's getting ever so fond of me, ze itty Patsy, watsy!
See how strong he is! He can almost stand on his legs! Look how
he laughs! He's just as cunning as he can be. And oh! I was going
to speak about that box. I wouldn't have him sleep in that old
packing-box. There are little wicker cradles at the store--I saw
them last week--they don't cost much, and you could bring one up in
the carriage. There's the other baby, crying, and I don't know
where Pomona is. Just you mind him a minute, please!" and out she
ran.
I looked out of the window. The horse still stood harnessed to the
carriage, as I had left him. I saw Pat's old shawl lying in a
corner. I seized it, and rolling him in it, new clothes and all, I
hurried down-stairs, climbed into the carriage, hastily disposed
Pat in my lap, and turned the horse. The demeanor of the youngster
was very different from what it was when I first took him in my lap
to drive away with him.
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