“But where can the mother be?” asked Dulcibel.
“I hope nothing has happened to her. A most extraordinary proceeding, anyhow, to leave the child alone here. If it were not such a canny little being it might have fallen into the river and been drowned—nothing more likely! I cannot understand any mother acting in such a way, and why she has not come back.”
“I don’t suppose she intends to come back,” pronounced Dulcie. “Well, I call this quite an adventure—quite a romance! And I shall not be the least surprised if nothing more is heard of the mother—horrid, heartless, wicked creature.”
“If it really were so. But we do not know yet, Dulcie. It may be only a case of heinous thoughtlessness.”
“Or of drink.”
“No need yet to believe the worst.”
“But to think of her leaving the little pet at all—such cruelty! Ninety-nine children in a hundred would be out of their wits with fright, or would wander away and get quite lost. And she might catch her death of cold on the damp grass. Oh, you needn’t defend the woman, Georgie, dear! I have no patience with such unmotherly, heartless ways.”
George had not the slightest intention of defending a course of action which only aroused in him deeper, though quieter indignation than in Dulcie; and he held his peace.
The short frock hung loosely, and Dulcibel caught sight of a small pocket. It was a neat print frock, nicely made; and indeed the child’s whole appearance spoke of affectionate care. Dulcibel’s slim fingers dived into the pocket, bringing out thence a tiny pocket handkerchief and a minute red pencil. On the handkerchief were the initials “J. B.,” and on the pencil, where a flat place had been cut for the purpose, was printed the single word “Joan.”
“That is her name, then,” said Leo. “What a jolly little face she has, uncle—and such black eyelashes!”