"By gum, it does say a thousand," cried Anderson, mightily relieved. "Harry Squires is a fool. He said jest now that it could be did fer eleven or twelve dollars. Don't you suppose, Eva, that the mother of this here child knows what it costs to bring 'em up? Of course she does. When I find her I'll prove it by her own lips that she knows. But don't bother me any more, Eva; I got to git out an' track her down. This is the greatest job I've had in years."
"See here, Anderson," said his wife thoughtfully and somewhat stealthily, "let's go slow about this thing. What do you want to find her for?"
"Why—why, doggone it, Eva, what air you talkin' about?" began he in amazement.
"Well, it's just this way: I don't think we can earn a thousand dollars a year easier than takin' care of this child. Don't you see? Suppose we keep her fer twenty years. That means twenty thousand dollars, don't it? It beats a pension all to pieces."
"Well, by ginger!" gasped Anderson, vaguely comprehending. "Fifty years would mean fifty thousand dollars, wouldn't it. Gee whiz, Eva!"
"I don't imagine we can keep her that long."
"No," reflectively; "the chances are she'd want ter git married inside of that time. They always—
"'Tain't that, Anderson. You an' me'd have to live to be more'n a hundred years old."
"That's so. We ain't spring chickens, are we, deary?"
She put her hard, bony hand in his and there was a suspicion of moisture in the kindly old eyes.