She had Morgan behind her for justification.

Jims was warm, physically comfortable--his cry wasn't the cry of pain--and had his little tummy as full as was good for him.

Under such circumstances it would be simply spoiling him to fuss over him, and she wasn't going to do it.

He could cry until he got good and tired and ready to go to sleep again.
Then Rilla's imagination began to torment her.

Suppose, she thought, I was a tiny, helpless creature only five months old, with my father somewhere in France and my poor little mother, who had been so worried about me, in the graveyard.