The child in Martha’s arms was, of course, the object of special attention.  They all agreed that it was a healthy, hearty, and most beautiful baby; just the kind of a child one would want to adopt if one had any such extraordinary desires.

This talk continued until they had gained the highway, when they also agreed—­and this without a single dissenting voice—­that in all the village Jane Cobden was the only woman conscientious enough to want to bring up somebody else’s child, and a foreigner at that, when there were any quantity of babies up and down the shore that could be had for the asking.  The little creature was, no doubt, helpless, and appealed to Miss Jane’s sympathies, but why bring it home at all?  Were there not places enough in France where it could be brought up? etc., etc.  This sort of gossip went on for days after Jane’s return, each dropper-in at tea-table or village gathering having some view of her own to express, the women doing most of the talking.

The discussion thus begun by friends was soon taken up by the sewing societies and church gatherings, one member in good standing remarking loud enough to be heard by everybody: 

“As for me, I ain’t never surprised at nothin’ Jane Cobden does.  She’s queerer than Dick’s hat-band, and allus was, and I’ve knowed her ever since she used to toddle up to my house and I baked cookies for her.  I’ve seen her many a time feed the dog with what I give her, just because she said he looked hungry, which there warn’t a mite o’ truth in, for there ain’t nothin’ goes hungry round my place, and never was.  She’s queer, I tell ye.”

“Quite true, dear Mrs. Pokeberry,” remarked Pastor Dellenbaugh in his gentlest tone—­he had heard the discussion as he was passing through the room and had stopped to listen—­“especially when mercy and kindness is to be shown.  Some poor little outcast, no doubt, with no one to take care of it, and so this grand woman brings it home to nurse and educate.  I wish there were more Jane Cobdens in my parish.  Many of you talk good deeds, and justice, and Christian spirit; here is a woman who puts them into practice.”

This statement having been made during the dispersal of a Wednesday night meeting, and in the hearing of half the congregation, furnished the key to the mystery, and so for a time the child and its new-found mother ceased to be an active subject of discussion.

Ann Gossaway, however, was not satisfied.  The more she thought of the pastor’s explanation the more she resented it as an affront to her intelligence.

“If folks wants to pick up stray babies,” she shouted to her old mother on her return home one night, “and bring ’em home to nuss, they oughter label ’em with some sort o’ pedigree, and not keep the village a-guessin’ as to who they is and where they come from.  I don’t believe a word of this outcast yarn.  Guess Miss Lucy is all right, and she knows enough to stay away when all this tomfoolery’s goin’ on.  She doesn’t want to come back to a child’s nussery.”  To all of which her mother nodded her head, keeping it going like a toy mandarin long after the subject of discussion had been changed.