“A goat!”
“Yes’m, a milk goat for the baby,” rolling her eyes.
Mrs. Flitch stood perfectly still, the incarnation of malignant virtue, allowing her eyes to pass back and forth between Maria and the carriage. The wicker hood concealed the contents from her avid gaze. When she could endure her curiosity no longer, she moved slowly around to the front, but maintaining a decent distance, and stared.
The baby recognized her at once, grinned, showing several teeth, and waved a highly ornamental teething ring.
“Maria, whose child is this?” Mrs. Flitch demanded sternly, as if it was her duty to know.
“Miss Helen says it’s her’n,” was the noncommittal reply.
Followed a series of questions as to the age and possible complexion of this child. One confidence led to another question until Maria let go and told all that she knew, which only increased the cloud hanging over the origin of this baby.
She said that she had gone in to clear the table that night in August of last year when Mr. Cutter left his wife. She had heard him tell her that he was going to leave her.
“What did Mrs. Cutter say to that?”
“Not a word. From first to last I did not hear her open her mouth, Mrs. Flitch. But he talked a right smart. I disremember what he said, but it wa’n’t praisin’. Then he goes out and banged the door after him. He ain’t been here since.”