Jane came back from Stokeley next day and unfolded
the parcel she had brought from the draper's there, he could not help
feeling that that somewhat dingy lavender, though it might wash like a
rag, was, to say the least, uninteresting, and the texture of the
flannel, even to his undiscriminating eye, was a trifle rough and
coarse for baby limbs.

He knew nothing (how should he?) of the cut and make of baby clothes,
but somehow, these, under Jane's scissors and needle, did not take such
attractive proportions as those she had prepared for the other baby;
nor did the stitches appear so careful and minute, though Jane's worst
enemy, if she had any, could not have accused her of putting bad work
even into the hem of a duster, let alone a baby's frock. He also
noticed that, industriously as she worked at the lavender print, her
ardour was not sufficient to last beyond bedtime, and that, when the
clock struck ten, her work was put away, without any apparent
reluctance, even when, to all appearances, it was so near completion
that anyone would have given the requisite ten minutes just from the
mere desire of finishing.

That Sunday afternoon, when the curious name Zoe, sounding across the
church in the strange clergyman's voice, startled the organist, who had
not expected the christening to take place that day, one of the
distracting thoughts which made him make so many mistakes in the music,
was wondering what Jane Sands would think of the name, and whether it
would rouse any suspicion in her mind and enlighten her a little as to
who the baby at Mrs Gray's really was. The name was full of memories
and associations to him; surely it must be also a little to Jane Sands.

But of all Sunday afternoons in the year, she had chosen this to go
over to Stokeley church. Why, parson and clerk were hardly more
regular in their attendance than Jane Sands as a rule; it was almost an
unheard-of thing for her seat to be empty. But to-day it was so, and
the row of little boys whom her gentle presence generally awed into
tolerable behaviour, indulged unchecked in all the ingenious
naughtiness that infant mind and body are capable of in church.

She came in rather late with his tea, apologising for having kept him
waiting.

'It was christening Sunday,' she said, and then she looked at him
rather wistfully.

Perhaps she has heard, he thought; perhaps the neighbours have told her
the name, and she is beginning to guess.

'And the baby