“There she is, rocking just as if the baby wasn’t lost,” Maria thought, with the bitterest revulsion and sarcasm.  When she opened the door she immediately smelled tea, the odor of broiling beefsteak and fried potatoes.  “Eating just as if the baby wasn’t lost,” she thought.  She rushed into the parlor, and there was Ida swaying back and forth in her rocking-chair, and there were three ladies with her.  One was Mrs. Jonas White; one was a very smartly dressed woman, Mrs. Adams, perhaps the most intimate friend whom Ida had in Edgham; one was the wife of the minister whose church the Edghams attended, Mrs. Applegate, or, as she was called, Mrs. Dr. Applegate—­her husband had a degree.  Her sister had just died and she was dressed in the deepest mourning; sitting in the shade in a corner, she produced a curious effect of a vacuum of grief.  Mrs. Adams, who was quite young and very pretty, stout and blond, was talking eagerly; Mrs. Jonas White was sniffing quietly; Mrs. Applegate, who was ponderously religious, asked once in a while, in a subdued manner, if Mrs. Edgham did not think it would be advisable to unite in prayer.

Ida made no reply.  She continued to rock, and she had a curious set expression.  Her lips were resolutely compressed, as if to restrain that radiant smile of hers, which had become habitual with her.  She looked straight ahead, keeping her eyes fastened upon a Tiffany vase which stood on a little shelf, a glow of pink and gold against a skilful background of crimson velvet.  It was as if she were having her photograph taken and had been requested by the photographer to keep her eyes fixed upon that vase.

“The detective system of New York is so lax,” said Mrs. Adams.  “I do wish there was more system among them and among the police.  One would feel—­” She heaved a deep sigh.

Mrs. Jonas White sobbed audibly.

“Do you not think, dear friends, that it would be a good plan to offer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the dear child’s return?” asked Mrs. Applegate in a solemn voice, albeit somewhat diffidently.  She was a corpulent woman, and was richly dressed, in spite of her deep mourning.  A jet brooch rimmed with pearls, gleamed out of the shadow where she sat.

Ida continued to rock.

“But,” said Mrs. Adams, “a great many children are lost every year and found.  Sometimes the system does really work in a manner to astonish any one.  I should not be surprised at any minute to see Mr. Edgham or a policeman walking in with her.  But—­well—­there is so much to be done.  The other night, when Mr. Adams and I went in to hear Mrs. Fiske, we drove eight blocks after the performance without seeing one policeman.”

“I suppose, though, if you had been really attacked, a dozen would have sprung out from somewhere,” said Mrs. White, in a tearful voice.  Mrs. White could not have heard Satan himself assailed without a word in his defence, such was the maternal pity of her heart.