“Wherever can it be!” cried the frantic Eliza.
A wild glance round the room told Eliza that there was only one place in which it could be. Her eyes fell at once on the large wicker basket, which had been set on the floor near the fire.
“Well, in all my born days!”
She rushed to the basket and began furiously to untie the lid. But the maxim “the more haste the less speed” was as true in 1890 as it is today. Eliza’s fingers merely served to double and treble knot the string.
Uncannily calm, Harriet rose from the table, the bread knife in her hand. In silence she knelt by the hearth and cut the knot. The deliberation of her movements was in odd contrast to Eliza’s frenzy.
“How did you come by it, Joe?”
The lid was off the basket in a trice. And the sight within further emphasized the diverse bearing of the two women. Harriet rose a statue; Eliza knelt in an ecstasy. One seemed to gloat over the sight that met her eyes; the other, with the gaze of Jocasta, stood turned to stone.
It was the sweetest little baby. In every detail immaculate, bright as a new pin, its long clothes were of a fine quality, and it was wrapped in a number of shawls. A hot-water bottle was under its tiny toes, and a bottle of milk by its side.
Eliza’s first act was to take the creature out of its receptacle. And then began the business of soothing it. Near the fire was a large rocking-chair, made for motherhood, and here sat Eliza, the foundling upon her knee. Evidently it had a charming disposition. For in two shakes of a duck’s tail it was taking its milk as if nothing had happened. Yet the calm, tense Harriet had a little to do with that. The milk was her happy thought. Moreover, she tested its quality and temperature with quite an air of experience. And the effect of the milk was magical.