'Look again,' he said, 'look again; don't you see a likeness?'
'Likeness? Oh, I suppose it's the gypsy child up at Mrs Gray's, and you mean the likeness to the woman who came here that day she was left; but I don't remember enough of her to say. It's plain the child's a gypsy. What a swarthy skin, to be sure!'
Why, where were her eyes? To Mr Robins it was little Edith over again. He wondered that all the village did not see it and cry out on him.
But it was not likely that after this his confidence should go further, and just then the child began a little grumble, and he took her back hastily to Mrs Gray with a disappointed, crest-fallen feeling.
Jane Sands was conscious that her reception of the baby had not been satisfactory, and she tried to make amends by little complimentary remarks, which annoyed him more than her indifference.
'A fine, strong child, and does Mrs Gray great credit.'
'It's a nice bright little thing, and I daresay will improve as it grows older.'
She could not imagine why the organist grunted in such a surly way in reply to these remarks, for what on earth could it matter to him what anyone thought of a foundling, gypsy child?