Rose in Bloom by Louisa May Alcott

her hat to keep the light from baby’s eyes and sat with the sunshine

turning her uncovered hair to gold as she looked down at the little

creature resting on the saddle before her with the sweet

thoughtfulness one sees in some of Correggio’s young Madonnas.

No one else saw the picture, but Mac long remembered it, and ever

after there was a touch of reverence added to the warm affection

he had always borne his cousin Rose.

“What is the child’s name?” was the sudden question which

disturbed a brief silence, broken only by the sound of pacing hoofs,

the rustle of green boughs overhead, and the blithe caroling of

birds.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Mac, suddenly aware that he had

fallen out of one quandary into another.

“Didn’t you ask??

“No, the mother called her ‘Baby,’ and the old woman, ‘Brat.’ And

that is all I know of the first name the last is Kennedy. You may

christen her what you like.?

“Then I shall name her Dulcinea, as you are her knight, and call

her Dulce for short. That is a sweet diminutive, I’m sure,” laughed

Rose, much amused at the idea.

Don Quixote looked pleased and vowed to defend his little lady

stoutly, beginning his services on the spot by filling the small

hands with buttercups, thereby winning for himself the first smile

baby’s face had known for weeks.

When they got home Aunt Plenty received her new guest with her

accustomed hospitality and, on learning the story, was as warmly

interested as even enthusiastic Rose could desire, bustling about to

make the child comfortable with an energy pleasant to see, for the

grandmotherly instincts were strong in the old lady and of late had

been beautifully developed.

In less than half an hour from the time baby went upstairs, she

came down again on Rose’s arm, freshly washed and brushed, in a

pink gown much too large and a white apron decidedly too small;

an immaculate pair of socks, but no shoes; a neat bandage on the

bruised arm, and a string of spools for a plaything hanging on the

other. A resigned expression sat upon her little face, but the

frightened eyes were only shy now, and the forlorn heart evidently

much comforted.

“There! How do you like your Dulce now?” said Rose, proudly

displaying the work of her hands as she came in with her habit

pinned up and carrying a silver porringer of bread and milk.

Mac knelt down, took the small, reluctant hand, and kissed it as

devoutly as ever good Alonzo Quixada did that of the Duchess

while he said, merrily quoting from the immortal story: ” ‘High and

Sovereign Lady, thine till death, the Knight of the Rueful

Countenance.’ ?

But baby had no heart for play and, withdrawing her hand, pointed

to the porringer with the suggestive remark: “Din-din, now.?

So Rose sat down and fed the Duchess while the Don stood by and

watched the feast with much satisfaction.

“How nice she looks! Do you consider shoes unhealthy?” he asked,

surveying the socks with respectful interest.

“No, her shoes are drying. You must have let her go in the mud.?

“I only put her down for a minute when she howled, and she made

for a puddle, like a duck. I’ll buy her some new ones clothes too.

Where do I go, what do I ask for, and how much do I get?” he said,

diving for his pocketbook, amiably anxious but pitiably ignorant.

“I’ll see to that. We always have things on hand for the Pointers as

they come along and can soon fit Dulce out. You may make some

inquiries about the father if you will, for I don’t want to have her

taken away just as I get fond of her. Do you know anything about

him??

“Only that he is in State Prison for twenty-one years, and not likely

to trouble you.?

“How dreadful! I really think Phebe was better off to have none at

all. I’ll go to work at once, then, and try to bring up the convict’s

little daughter to be a good woman so that she will have an honest