“If he were a white baby, I wouldn’t object that I know of,” said she, “but I can’t have this kind.  I can’t make up my mind to it, Edward.”

“But, Maria, the child is white.  He may not be European, but he is white.  That is, while of course he has a dark complexion and dark eyes and hair, he is as white, in a way, as any child in Fairbridge, and he will be a beautiful boy.  Moreover, we have every reason to believe that he was born in wedlock.  There was a ring on a poor string of a ribbon on the mother’s neck, and there was a fragment of a letter which Von Rosen managed to make out.  He thinks that the poor child was married to another child of her own race.  The boy is all right and he will be a fine little fellow.”

“It is of no use,” said Maria Sturtevant.  “I can’t make up my mind to adopt a baby, that belonged to that kind of people.  I simply can not, Edward.”

Sturtevant gave up the matter for the time being.  The baby remained at Von Rosen’s under the care of Mrs. Bestwick, and Jane Riggs, but when it was a month old, the doctor persuaded his wife to go over and see it.  Maria Sturtevant gazed at the tiny scrap of humanity curled up in Jane Riggs’ darning basket, the old-young face creased as softly as a rosebud, with none of its beauty, but with a compelling charm.  She watched the weak motion of the infinitesimal legs and arms beneath the soft smother of wrappings, and her heart pained her with longing, but she remained firm.

“It is no use, Edward,” she said, when they had returned to Von Rosen’s study.  “I can’t make up my mind to adopt a baby coming from such queer people.”  Then she was confronted by a stare of blank astonishment from Von Rosen, and also from Jane Riggs.

Jane Riggs spoke with open hostility.  “I don’t know that anybody has asked anybody to adopt our baby,” said she.

Von Rosen laughed, but he also blushed.  He spoke rather stammeringly.  “Well, Sturtevant,” said he, “the fact is, Jane and I have talked it over, and she thinks she can manage, and he seems a bright little chap, and—­I have about made up my mind to keep him myself.”

“He is going to be baptised as soon as he is big enough to be taken out of my darning basket,” said Jane Riggs with defiance, but Mrs. Sturtevant regarded her with relief.

“I dare say he will be a real comfort to you,” she said, “even if he does come from such queer stock.”  Her husband looked at Von Rosen and whistled under his breath.

“People will talk,” he said aside.

“Let them,” returned Von Rosen.  He was experiencing a strange new joy of possession, which no possibility of ridicule could daunt.  However, his joy was of short duration.  The baby was a little over three months old, and had been promoted to a crib, and a perambulator, had been the unconscious recipient of many gifts from the women of Von Rosen’s parish, and of many calls from admiring little girls.  Jane had scented the danger.  She came home from marketing one morning, quite pale, and could hardly speak when she entered Von Rosen’s study.