That that fine little fellow was not to blame for his people’s misconduct.

That they would never be found.

That it would probably be the means of the poor child’s ruin, body and soul, if they were.

That the master of the neighbouring workhouse bore a bad character.

That a child costs nothing to keep—­where cows are kept too—­for years.

That just at the age when a boy begins to eat dreadfully and wear out his clothes, he is very useful on a farm (though not for these reasons).

That Thomasina had taken to him.

That there need be no nonsense about it, as he could be brought up in his proper station in life in the kitchen and the farm yard.

That tramps have souls.

That he would be taught to say his prayers.

Miss Betty said hers, and went to bed; but all through that midsummer night the baby kept her awake, or flaunted his yellow robe and crimson toadstool through her dreams.

The morning brought no change in Miss Betty’s views, but she felt doubtful as to how her sister would receive them.  Would she regard them as foolish and unpractical, and her respect for Miss Betty’s opinion be lessened thenceforward?

The fear was needless.  Miss Kitty was romantic and imaginative.  She had carried the baby through his boyhood about the Lingborough fields whilst she was dressing; and he was attending her own funeral in the capacity of an attached and faithful servant, in black livery with worsted frogs, as she sprinkled salt on her buttered toast at breakfast, when she was startled from this affecting daydream by Miss Betty’s voice.

“Dear sister Kitty, I wish to consult you as to our plans in the event of those wicked people who deserted the baby not being found.”

The little ladies resolved that not an inkling of their benevolent scheme must be betrayed to the lawyer.  But they dissembled awkwardly, and the tone in which they spoke of the tramp-baby roused the lawyer’s quick suspicions.  He had a real respect for the little ladies, and was kindly anxious to save them from their own indiscretion.

“My dear ladies,” said he, “I do hope your benevolence—­may I say your romantic benevolence?—­of disposition is not tempting you to adopt this gipsy waif?”

“I hope we know what is due to ourselves, and to the estate—­small, as it is—­sir,” said Miss Betty, “as well as to Providence, too well to attempt to raise any child, however handsome, from that station of life in which he was born.”

“Bless me, madam!  I never dreamed you would adopt a beggar child as your heir; but I hope you mean to send it to the workhouse, if the gipsy tramps it belongs to are not to be found?”

“We have not made up our minds, sir, as to the course we propose to pursue,” said Miss Betty, with outward dignity proportioned to her inward doubts.