Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the seventh chapter of Rilla of Ingleside.

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Wherever you listen to podcasts today, we'll be continuing Rilla of Ingleside by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Chapter seven.

A war, baby and a soup tureen liege and Nomur.

And now Brussels.

The doctor shook his head.

I don't like it.

I don't like it.

Do not lose your heart, Dr.

Dear.

They were just defended by foreigners, said Susan superbly.

Wait till the Germans come against the British.

There will be a very different story to tell, and that you may tie to.

The doctor shook his head again, but a little less gravely.

Perhaps they all shared subconsciously in Susan's belief that the thin gray line was unbreakable even by the victorious rush of Germany's ready millions.

At any rate, when the terrible day came, the first of many terrible days, with the news that the British army was driven back, they stared at each other in blank dismay.

It it can't be true.

Gasped NAN, taking a brief refuge in temporary incredulity.

I felt that there was to be bad news today, said Susan, for that cat creature turned into Mr.

Hyde this morning without rhyme or reason for it.

And that was no good omen.

A broken, a beaten, but not a demoralized army, muttered the doctor from a London dispatch.

Can it be England's army of which such a thing is said?

It will be a long time now before the war is ended, said Mrs.

Blythe despairingly.

Susan's faith, which had for a moment been temporarily submerged, now reappeared triumphantly.

Remember, Mrs.

Doctor dear, that the British army is not the British Navy.

Never forget that.

And the Russians are on their way too.

Though Russians are people I do not know much about and consequently will not tie to the Russians will not be in time to save Paris, said Walter Gloomily.

Paris is the heart of France, and the road to it is open.

Oh, I wish he stopped abruptly and went out.

After a paralyzed day, the Ingleside folk found it was possible to carry on even in the face of ever darkening bad news.

Susan worked fiercely in her kitchen.

The doctor went out on his round of visits.

NAN and Die returned to their Red Cross activities.

Mrs.

Blythe went to Charlottetown to attend a Red Cross convention.

Rilla, after relieving her feelings by a stormy fit of tears in Rainbow Valley and an outburst in her diary, remembered that she had elected to be brave and heroic.

And she thought it really was heroic to volunteer to drive about the Glen in four winds one day, collecting promised Red Cross supplies with Abner Crawford's old gray horse.

One of the Ingleside horses was lame, and the doctor needed the other, so there was nothing for it but the Crawford Nag, a placid, unhasting, thick skinned creature with an amiable habit of stopping every few yards to kick a fly off one leg with the foot of the other.

Rilla felt that this, coupled with the fact that the Germans were only 50 miles from Paris, was hardly to be endured.

But she started off galliantly on an errand fraught with amazing results.

Late in the afternoon, she found herself with a buggy full of parcels at the entrance to a grassy, deep rutted lane leading to the harbor shore, wondering whether it was worthwhile to call down at the Anderson house.

The Andersons were desperately poor, and it was not likely Mrs.

Anderson had anything to give.

On the other hand, her husband, who was an Englishman by birth and who had been working in Kingsport when the war broke out, had promptly sailed for England to enlist there without, it may be said, coming home or sending much hard cash to represent him.

So possibly Mrs.

Anderson might feel hurt if she were overlooked.

Rilla decided to call.

There were times afterwards when she wished she hadn't, but in the long run she was very thankful that she did.

The Anderson house was a small and tumbledown affair.

Crouching in a grove of battered spruces near the shore, as if rather ashamed of itself and anxious to hide, rilla tied her grey nag to the rickety fence and went to the door.

It was open, and the sight she saw breathed her temporarily of the power of speech or motion.

Through the open door of the small bedroom opposite her, rilla saw Mrs.

Anderson lying on the untidy bed.

And Mrs.

Anderson was dead.

There was no doubt of that.

Neither was there any doubt that a big, Frowy, redheaded, red faced, over fat woman sitting near the doorway smoking a pipe quite comfortably, was very much alive.

She rocked idly back and forth amid her surroundings of squalid disorder and paid no attention whatever to the piercing whales proceeding from a cradle in the middle of the room.

Rilla knew the woman by sight and reputation.

Her name was Mrs Conover.

She lived down at the fishing village.

She was a great aunt of Mrs Anderson, and she drank as well as smoked.

Rilla's first impulse was to turn and flee, but that would never do.

Perhaps this woman, repulsive as she was, needed help, though she certainly did not look as if she were worrying over the lack of it.

Come in, said Mrs Conover, removing her pipe and staring at Rilla with her little ratlike eyes.

Is Mrs Anderson really dead?

Asked Rilla timidly as she stepped over the sill.

Dead is a doorknoil, responded Mrs Conover cheerfully kicked the bucket.

Half an hour ago I've sent Jen Conover to phone for the undertaker and get some help up from the shore.

You're the doctor's, Miss ain't she have a cheer.

Rilla did not see any chair which was not cluttered with something.

She remained standing.

Wasn't it very sudden?

Well, she's been opining ever since that worthless gym lit out for England, which I say it's a pity as he ever left it's.

My belief she was took for death when she heard the news.

That young and there was born a fortnight ago, and since then she's just gone down.

And today she up and died without a soul expecting it.

Is there anything I can do to help?

Hesitated Rilla.

Bless ye's, no.

Unless you've a knack with kids.

I haven't.

That young in there never lets up squalling, day or night.

I've just got that.

I take no notice of it.

Rola tiptoed gingerly over to the cradle and more gingerly still, pulled down the dirty blanket.

She had no intention of touching the baby.

She had no knack with kids either.

She saw an ugly midget with a red distorted little face rolled up in a piece of dingy old flannel.

She'd never seen an uglier baby yet.

A feeling of pity for the desolate orphaned mite which had come out of the everywhere into such a dubious here took sudden possession of her.

What is going to become of the baby?

She asked.

Lord knows, said Mrs Conover candidly.

Men worried awful over that before she died.

She kept on as saying, oh, what will become of my poor baby?

Till it really got on my nerves.

I ain't to go into trouble myself with it, I can tell ye's.

I brong up a boy that my sister left and he skinned out as soon as he got to be some good and won't give me a might of help in my old age.

Ungrateful wealthy is.

I told Men it had had to be sent to an orphan asylum till we'd see if Jim ever came back to look after it.

Would ye's believe it?

She didn't relish the idea, but that's the long and short of it.

But who will look after it until it can be taken to the asylum, persisted Rilla.

Somehow the baby's fate worried her.

Suppose I'll have to grunted.

Mrs Conover.

She put away her pipe and took an unblushing swig from a black bottle she produced from a shelf near her.

It's my opinion the kid won't live long.

It's sickly.

Men never had no gimp, and I guess it ain't either.

Likely it won't trouble anyone long, and good riddance, says I.

Rilla drew the blanket down a little farther.

Why the baby isn't dressed?

She exclaimed in a shocked tone.

Who was to dress him, I'd like to know?

Demanded Mrs Conover truculently.

I hadn't.

Time took me all the time there was looking after men.

Besides, as I told ye's, I don't know nithin about kids.

Old Mrs.

Billy Crawford, she was here when it was born and she washed it and rolled it up in that flannel.

And Jen, she's tended it a bit since the critters warm enough, this weather would melt.

A brass monkey roller was silent, looking down at the crying baby.

She had never encountered any of the tragedies of life before and this one smote her to the core of her heart.

The thought of the poor mother going down into the Valley of the Shadow alone, fretting about her baby with no one near but this abominable old woman hurt her terribly.

If she had only come a little sooner.

Yet what could she have done?

What could she do now?

She didn't know.

But she must do something.

She hated babies, but she simply could not go away and leave that poor little creature with Mrs.

Conover, who was applying herself again to her black bottle and would probably be helplessly drunk before anybody came.

I can't stay.

Thought rilla.

Mr Crawford said I must be home by supper time because he wanted the pony this evening himself.

What can I do?

She made a sudden, desperate, impulsive resolution.

I'll take the baby home with me, she said.

Can I?

Sure, if ye's wants to, said Mrs.

Conover amiably.

I ain't in the objection.

Take it in welcome.

I I can't carry it, said Rilla.

I have to drive the horse, and I'd be afraid I'd drop it.

Is there a basket anywhere that I could put it in?

Not as I know zon.

There ain't much here of anything.

I can tell.

Ze men was poor and as shiftless as Jim.

If ye opens that drawer over there, ye's find a few baby clothes.

Best take them along.

Rilla got the clothes the cheap sleazy garments the poor mother had made ready as best she could.

But this did not solve the pressing problem of the baby's transportation.

Rilla looked helplessly round.

Oh, for mother or Susan?

Her eyes fell on an enormous blue soup terrain at the back of the dresser.

May I have this to lay him in?

She asked.

Well, taint mine, but I guess ye's can take it.

Don't smash it if ye's can help.

Jim might make a fuss about it if he comes back alive, which he sure will, seeing he ain't any good.

He broke that old teren out from England with him.

Said it'd always been in the family.

Him and men.

Never used it, never had enough soup to put in it.

But Jim thought the world of it.

He was mighty particular about some things but didn't worry him none that there weren't much in the way of eatables to put in the dishes.

For the first time in her life, Rilla Blythe touched a baby, lifted it, rolled it in a blanket, trembling with nervousness lest she'd drop it or break it.

Then she put it in the soup terrain.

Is there any fear of it smothering?

She asked anxiously.

Not much odds of it do, said Mrs.

Conover.

A horrified Rilla loosened the blanket round the baby's face a little.

The mite had stopped crying and was blinking up at her.

It had big dark eyes and its ugly little face.

Better not let the wind blow on it, admonished Mrs.

Conover.

Take its breath if it do.

Rilla wrapped the tattered little quilt around the soup terrain.

Will you hand this to me after I get into the buggy, please?

Sure I will, said Mrs.

Conover, getting up with a grunt.

And so it was that Rilla Blythe, who had driven to the Anderson house a self confessed hater of babies drove away from it, carrying one in a soup terrain on her lap.

Rilla thought she would never get to Ingleside in the soup terrain.

There was an uncanny silence.

In one way she was thankful the baby did not cry, but she wished it would give an occasional squeak to prove that it was alive.

Suppose it were smothered.

Rilla dared not unwrap it to see lest the wind, which was now blowing a hurricane, should take its breath, whatever dreadful thing that might be.

She was a thankful girl.

When at last she reached harbor at Ingleside, rilla carried the soup terrine to the kitchen and set it on the table under Susan's eyes.

Susan looked into the terrine and for once in her life was so completely floored that she had not a word to say.

What in the world is this?

Asked the doctor coming in.

Rilla poured out her story.

I just had to bring it, Father, she concluded.

I couldn't leave it there.

What are you going to do with it?

Asked the doctor cooley.

Rilla hadn't exactly expected this kind of question.

We we can keep it here for a while, can't we, until something can be arranged, she stammered.

Confusedly, dr.

Blythe walked up and down the kitchen for a moment or two while the baby stared at the white walls of the soup tureen and Susan showed signs of returning animation.

Presently the doctor confronted Rilla.

A young baby means a great deal of additional work and trouble in a household rilla, NAN and Di are leaving for Redmond next week and neither your mother nor Susan is able to assume so much extra care under present conditions.

If you want to keep that baby here, you must attend to it yourself.

Merla was dismayed into being ungrammatical.

Why, Father, I couldn't.

Younger girls than you have had to look after babies.

My advice, and Susan's is at your disposal.

If you cannot, then the baby must go back to Meg Conover.

Its lease of life will be short if it does, for it is evident that it is a delicate child and requires particular care.

I doubt if it would survive even if sent to an orphan's home.

But I cannot have your mother and Susan overtaxed.

The doctor walked out of the kitchen looking very stern and immovable in his heart.

He knew quite well that the small inhabitant of the big soup terrain would remain at Ingleside.

But he meant to see if Rilla could not be induced to rise to the occasion.

Rilla sat looking blankly at the baby.

It was absurd to think she could take care of it.

But that poor little frail, dead mother who had worried about it that dreadful old Meg Conover.

Susan, what must be done for a baby?

She asked.

Dolefully you must keep it warm and dry and wash it every day and be sure the water is neither too hot nor too cold.

And feed it every 2 hours.

If it has colic, you put hot things on its stomach, said Susan rather feebly and flatly for her.

The baby began to cry again.

It must be hungry.

It has to be fed anyhow, said Rilla desperately.

Tell me what to get for it, Susan, and I'll get it.

Under Susan's direction, a ration of milk and water was prepared and a bottle obtained from the doctor's office.

Then Rilla lifted the baby out of the soup terrine and fed it.

She brought down the old basket of her own infancy from the attic and laid the now sleeping baby in it.

She put the soup terrain away in the pantry.

Then she sat down to think things over.

The result of her thinking things over was that she went to Susan when the baby woke.

I'm going to see what I can do, Susan.

I can't let that poor little thing go back to Mrs.

Conover.

Tell me how to wash and dress it.

Under Susan's supervision, Rilla bathed the baby.

Susan dared not help other than by suggestion, for the doctor was in the living room and might pop in at any moment.

Susan had learned by experience that when Dr.

Blythe put his foot down and said, a thing must be that thing was rilla set her teeth and went ahead.

In the name of goodness, how many wrinkles and kinks did a baby have?

Why, there wasn't enough of it to take hold of, I suppose.

She let it slip into the water.

It was so wobbly.

If it would only stop howling like that.

How could such a tiny morsel make such an enormous noise?

Its shrieks could be heard over Ingleside from cellar to attic.

Am I really hurting it much, Susan, do you suppose?

She asked piteously.

No, deary.

Most new babies hate like poison to be washed.

You are real knacky for a beginner.

Keep your hand under its back, whatever you do, and keep cool.

Keep cool.

Rilla was oozing perspiration at every pore.

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'll 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 03:00 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 mothers 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.

She would look after this detestable little animal if it killed her.

She would get a book on baby hygiene and be beholden to no one.

She would never go to Father for advice.

She wouldn't bother Mother and she would only condescend to Susan in dire extremity.

They would all see.

Thus it came about that Mrs.

Blythe, when she returned home two nights later and asked Susan where Rilla was, was electrified by Susan's composed reply.

She's upstairs, Mrs.

Dr, dear, putting her baby to bed.

Thank you for joining Bite at a Time books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

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