of my ancestors, especially the Dagworthys, were accomplished
musicians. Your sister will look lovely bending over a harp. My
grandmother had her portrait painted that way by Peale, and it still
hangs in the old house in Trenton. And they tell me you have brought a
little angel with you to bring up and share your loneliness? How
pathetic, and how good of you!"

The village women--they came in groups--asked dozens of questions
before Jane had had even time to shake each one by the hand. Was Lucy
so in love with the life abroad that she would never come back? was she
just as pretty as ever? what kind of bonnets were being worn? etc., etc.

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 kin