She was soothing and swaddling the outraged baby.

"There--there!" she crooned.
"Nora'll take care of you.

The bad man shan't come near my little precious--no, the wicked man shan't touch her again." The bedroom door opened.

At the slight noise superstitious Nora paled, shriveled within her green and white checked gingham.

She slowly turned her head as if on this day of miracles she expected yet another--the resurrection of the resurrected baby's mother, "poor Miss Lorella." But Lorella Lenox was forever tranquil in the sleep that engulfed her and the sorrows in which she had been entangled by an impetuous, trusting heart.
The apparition in the doorway was commonplace--the mistress of the house, Lorella's elder and married sister Fanny--neither fair nor dark, neither tall nor short, neither thin nor fat, neither pretty nor homely, neither stupid nor bright, neither neat nor dowdy--one of that multitude of excellent, unobtrusive human beings who make the restful stretches in a world of agitations--and who respond to the impetus of circumstance as unresistingly as cloud to wind.
As the wail of the child smote upon Fanny's ears she lifted her head, startled, and cried out sharply, "What's that ?" "We've saved the baby, Mrs.Warham," replied the young doctor, beaming on her through his glasses.
"Oh!" said Mrs.Warham.