For the first time in her life Rilla Blythe touched a baby -- lifted it -- rolled it in a blanket , trembling with nervousness lest she drop it or -- or -- break it . Then she put it in the soup tureen . `` Is there any fear of it smothering ? '' she asked anxiously . `` Not much odds if it do , '' said Mrs. Conover . Horrified Rilla loosened the blanket round the baby 's face a little . The mite had stopped crying and was blinking up at her . It had big dark eyes in its ugly little face . `` Better not let the wind blow on it , '' admonished Mrs. Conover . `` Take its breath if it do . '' Rilla wrapped the tattered little quilt around the soup tureen . `` Will you hand this to me after I get into the buggy , please ? '' `` Sure I will , '' said Mrs. Conover , getting up with a grunt . And so it was that Rilla Blythe , who had driven to the Anderson house a self-confessed hater of babies , drove away from it carrying one in a soup tureen on her lap ! Rilla thought she would never get to Ingleside . In the soup tureen there was an uncanny silence . In one way she was thankful the baby did not cry but she wished it would give an occasional squeak to prove that it was alive . Suppose it were smothered ! Rilla dared not unwrap it to see , lest the wind , which was now blowing a hurricane , should `` take its breath , '' whatever dreadful thing that might be . She was a thankful girl when at last she reached harbour at Ingleside .
Rilla carried the soup tureen XXXXX the kitchen , and set it on the table under Susan 's eyes .
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