“Your sister’s—a— And is your sister dead?”
“Dead! of course not. Why should I want a home for her if she were?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am, I didn’t understand you wanted a home for the lady too, I thought as you said only for the baby.”
“It is only for the baby,” replied Prudence in confusion. “The baby is my sister.”
“Your sister?” repeated the woman, surprised. “Your sister a baby?”
“Yes,” answered Prudence, rather nettled. “My sister is a baby, there is nothing so wonderful in that I hope.”
The woman looked as if she would like to ask some further questions, but checked herself and said,
“Oh, of course not. It’s none of my business, anyhow—and by the way I’ve just remembered something that might do if I can find it. About six months ago one of my customers arsked me to put up a bill in the window, wishing for to adopt a child, an’ I did, but nothink came of it, and so I took it down after a month or two and put it aside somewhere. If I could find it, it might be somethink like you want.”
“Pray do look for it. I shall be greatly obliged.”
After some rummaging in various drawers and boxes, and calling upstairs to an invisible “’Lizer,” the document, dirty and fly-stained, was found under a heap of old newspapers and handed to Prudence.