The Willoughbys by Lois Lowry Page A

sound." Nanny held up one finger to silence them, and now they could all hear the delicious giggle from the porch of the mansion.
    "I think we should go home," Barnaby A said nervously.
    "Yes, isn't it lunchtime? Weren't you planning vichyssoise for lunch, Nanny?" asked Barnaby B.
    "Let's skip home!" suggested Tim. He did a few tentative moves of his feet and arms.
    "It's a very sweet sound," Jane said, glancing at Nanny.
    "It's a baby!" Nanny announced. "On the porch of that mansion! Let's go look!"
    "I believe," Tim said, "that it is quite against the law to enter a private gate and cross a private walk and ascend the steps of a private porch. I think we might very well be arrested, Nanny, if we investigate this any further. Let's leave at once. Fifty points off anyone who does not leave immediately."

    "Nonsense," said Nanny. "You stopped that silly point thing weeks ago. Come. Close the gate behind you in case there is a dog confined in the yard. I once knew someone whose spaniel fled when a gate was left open and it was never seen again and three members of the family died of grief"
    Jane took Nanny's hand and followed her through the gate. "I do love babies," Jane confided. "I've always wanted one. I remember when we found—"
    Tim interrupted her. "I don't believe people die of grief," he muttered. He came through the gate as well and latched it behind him. Only the twins remained on the sidewalk, looking nervous.
    "Yes, they do," Nanny told him. "They waste away. I have known at least twelve people who have died of grief. It's a terrible way to go."
    "It is indeed!" a loud voice suddenly said. All of them, even Nanny, jumped.
    A large man with a thick mustache had appeared suddenly through a door that opened onto the porch. He was wearing a tweed jacket and a polka-dot bow tie, and he was carrying a box of cookies.
    "I myself came very close to dying of grief not long ago," he announced. "How do you do—I am Commander Melanoff. What are you doing on my porch? Have a ginger cookie?"

    Nanny took one. "We heard a lovely giggle from your porch and came to investigate. I have learned over the course of my many years that it is a bad idea, usually, to investigate piteous weeping but always a fine thing to look into a giggle." She bit into the cookie. "Delicious," she said. "Twins!" she called to the other side of the fence. "There are cookies!" Timidly the two Barnabys came through the gate and approached the porch. "How do you do and thank you for the ginger cookie," Nanny said, extending her hand, which the commander shook. "I am sorry to hear that you almost died of grief. Have you recovered?"
    "I'm somewhat better," he replied. He passed the box of cookies around to the children. "My source of solace has been this lovely infant." He walked toward the end of the large porch, where a grinning baby with curly hair stood grasping the side of her playpen, and they followed him.
    "It's not the same baby," Jane whispered to Tim. "Its hair isn't stubbly."
    "It grew, dolt, since Mother chopped it off." Tim looked nervously toward Nanny to see if she had heard the word dolt, which she had so recently forbidden. But she was leaning over the baby, smiling and talking in a babylike voice.

    "What's your daughter's name, Commander?" she asked. "Oh, I see: Ruth. Sweet monogram"
    "Yes, her name is Ruth. But she is not my daughter. She's my, ah, ward. "
    "Oh, lovely!" said Nanny. "You are an old-fashioned family, like us. We are four worthy orphans with a no-nonsense nanny."
    "Like Mary Poppins?" suggested the man, with a pleased look of recognition.
    "Not one bit like that fly-by-night woman," Nanny said with a sniff. "It almost gives me diabetes just to think of her: all those disgusting spoonfuls of sugar! None of that for me. I am simply a competent and professional nanny. And you are a—let me think—"
    "Bereaved benefactor?" suggested the commander.
    "Exactly. A bereaved benefactor with a ward. Like the uncle in The Secret