“The prisoner, I b’lieve, yer wushup, an’ two of her neighbours that identified the children, and gave the names by which they was known.”
“Let me look at it.”
Augusta was held up for the magistrate’s nearer inspection.
“Well,” said he, hesitatingly, “I’m not much of a judge of babies, but that child does seem to me to be quite three years old. When was she born?” he asked Prudence.
“Fifty-three years ago—on the 21st of April, 18—.”
Another roar of laughter greeted this reply, but the magistrate was annoyed. The woman was too ridiculous, for it was easy to see she was not as mad as she pretended.
“Madam,” he said severely, “you must be aware of the impression I have formed with regard to the ridiculous story you have thought fit to tell, and I would warn you, in your own interests, to remember that it is advisable to speak the truth.”
At any other time, his stern tone and frowning brows would have frightened poor Prudence out of such little wits as she possessed. Now, however, she seemed to be paying no attention, but, with dilated eyes, kept staring at Augusta, who was certainly conducting herself in a very extraordinary fashion. To the dismay of the nurse, she was bending, wriggling, and stretching in her arms.
As the magistrate ceased speaking, there was a sudden sound of rent material, a shower of buttons flew about the heads of the junior counsel, and Augusta’s sloppy workhouse frock and pinafore, that had been gradually tightening to bursting point, split explosively up the back and sleeves.
“Look, look!” cried Prudence, in a fever of anxiety. “It is passing off. I told you so. She is growing older. Oh! wait a little, your worship. Before long perhaps she will be able to speak. She will confirm what I’ve told you. Augusta dear, for heaven’s sake, speak if you can. They don’t believe me.”