Sure enough, under a tree lay a baby, perhaps a year old, fairly well dressed and with a pretty smiling face.
He called to Patty and she joined him where he stood looking at the child.
“Why, bless your heart!” cried Patty, picking the little one up, “what are you doing here all alone?”
The baby cooed and smiled, dimpling its little face and caressing Patty’s cheeks with its fat little hands. A heavy blanket had been spread on the ground for the child to lie on, and around its little form was pinned a lighter blanket with the name Rosabel embroidered on one corner.
“So that’s your name, is it?” said Patty. “Well, Rosabel, I’d like to know where you belong and what you’re doing here. Do you suppose,” she said, turning an indignant face to Mr. Phelps, “that anybody deliberately put this child here and deserted it?”
“I’m afraid that’s what has happened,” said Mr. Phelps, who really couldn’t think of any other explanation.
They looked all around, but nobody was in sight to whom the child might possibly belong.
“I can’t go away and leave her here,” said Patty, “the dear little thing, what shall we do with her?”
“It is a mighty hard case,” said Mr. Phelps, who was nonplussed himself. He was a most gentle-hearted man, and could not bear the thought of leaving the child there alone in the woods, and it was already nearing sundown.
“We might take it along with us,” he said, “and enquire at the nearest house.”