Parents dead. No relations. Be good to her and God will be
good to you.
Besides this in the little bag was a narrow gold band, wrapped in a
bit of paper that read:
Her mother's wedding-ring.
Broodingly I hung over the short but poignant record. "Maria
Annunciata," I repeated. "What a beautiful name! Three and a half
years old! What an adorable age! No relations. No one can ever take
her from us! I shall be her godmother and her best friend, whoever
adopts her. And I'll keep her till the right mother comes for her, if
it takes the rest of my life."
The doctor laughed and bade us good night, after a final approving
look at the sleeping baby in the big bed. The trained nurse departed
with evident reluctance for her room.
The telephone beside my bed clicked warningly, then tinkled. As I took
up the receiver a familiar voice came to me over the wire.
"Is that you, May?" it said. "This is Josephine Morgan. Did you get a
dinner invitation from me yesterday? Not hearing from you, I've been
trying to get you on the telephone all evening, but no one answered."
"I know," I said, cheerfully. "Awfully sorry. I've been busy. I've got
a baby."
Maria Annunciata stirred in her sleep. Speaking very softly, that I
might not awaken her, I told Josephine the story of my adventure.
"Come and see her soon," I ended. "I mustn't talk any more.
Annunciata is here beside me. She's absolutely different from any
other child in the world. Good night."
I undressed slowly, stopping at intervals to study the pleasing effect
of Maria Annunciata's short black curls on the pillow. At last, moving
very carefully for fear of disturbing her, I crept into bed. As
promptly as if the yielding of the mattress had been a signal that set
her tiny body in motion, Maria Annunciata awoke, smiled at me, cuddled
into the curve of my left arm, reached up, and firmly grasped my left
ear. Then, with a long sigh of ineffable content, she dropped back
into slumber.
The only light was the soft glow of an electric bulb behind an amber
shade. The button that controlled it was within easy reach of my hand;
a touch would have plunged the room into darkness. But I did not press
the little knob. Instead, I lay for a long, long time looking at the
sleeping child beside me.
There was a soft knock at the door. It opened quietly and my servant
appeared.
"Mr. and Mrs. Morgan are outside," she whispered. "They say they've
come to see the baby."
"But," I gasped, "it's after eleven o'clock!"
"I know. Mrs. Morgan said they couldn't wait till morning. Shall I
show her in?"
I hesitated. I felt a sense of unreasonable annoyance, almost of fear.
"Yes," I said, at last, "let her come in."
Josephine Morgan came in with a soft little feminine rush. Something
of the atmosphere of the great world in which she lived came with her
as far as the bedside, then dropped from her like a garment as she
knelt beside us and kissed me, her eyes on Maria Annunciata's sleeping
face.
"Oh, the darling, the lamb!" she breathed. "She's the most exquisite
thing I ever saw! And the pluck of her! George says she ought to have
a Carnegie medal." Still kneeling, she bent over the child, her
beautiful face quivering with feeling. "What do you know about her
family?" she asked.
With a gesture I indicated the scrap of paper and the ring that lay on
my dressing-table. "There's the whole record," I murmured.
She rose and examined them, standing very still for a moment
afterward, apparently in deep thought. Then, still holding them, she
returned to the bedside and with a quick but indescribably tender
movement gathered Maria Annunciata into her arms. "Let me show her to
George," she whispered.
I consented, and she carried the sleeping baby into the next room. I
heard their voices and an occasional low laugh. A strange feeling of
loneliness settled upon me. In a few moments she came back, her face
transfigured. Bending, she put the child in bed and sat down beside
her.
"May," she said, quietly, "George and I want her. Will you give her to
us?"
The demand was so sudden that I could not speak. She looked at me, her
eyes filling.
"We've been looking for a little daughter for two years," she added.
"We've visited dozens of institutions."
"But," I stammered, "I wanted to keep her myself--for a while,
anyway."
She smiled at me. "Why, you will--" she began, and stopped.
"You may have her," I said, quietly.
She kissed me. "We'll make her happy," she promised. "I suppose," she
added, "we couldn't take her away _to-night_? Of course the first
thing in the morning will _do_," she concluded, hastily, as she met my
indignant gaze.
"Josephine Morgan," I gasped, "I never met such selfishness! Of course
you can't have her to-night. You can't have her in the morning,
either. You've got to adopt her legally, with red seals and things. It
will take lots of time."
Mrs. Morgan laughed, passing a tender finger through one of Maria
Annunciata's short curls. "We'll do it," she said. "We'll do anything.
And we're going to be in New York all winter, so you can be with her a
great deal while she's getting used to us. Now I'll go." But she
lingered, making a pretext of tucking in the bedclothes around us.
"You've seen the _Sentinel_," she asked, "with that story about you?"
I shook my head at her. "Don't, please," I begged. "We'll talk about
that to-morrow."
She kissed the deep dimple in Maria Annunciata's left cheek. "Good
night," she said, again. "You'll never know how happy you have made
us."
The door closed behind her. I raised my hand and pressed the button
above my head. Around me the friendly darkness settled, and a silence
as warm and friendly. In the hollow of my neck the face of Maria
Annunciata rested, a short curl tickling my cheek. I recalled "the
great silence" that fell over the convent at nine o'clock when the
lights went out, but to-night the reflection did not bring its usual
throb of homesickness and longing. Relaxed, content, I lay with eyes
wide open, looking into the future. Without struggle, without
self-analysis, but firmly and for all time, I had decided _not_ to be
a nun.