“If that is the case,” returned Jack, not knowing what to think, “it must have miscarried.”
“That is a pity. How anxious you all must have felt!” remarked Peg, sympathizingly.
“It seemed as if half the family were gone. But how long does Ida's mother mean to keep her?”
“A month or six weeks,” was the reply.
“But,” said Jack, his suspicions returning, “I have been told that Ida has twice called at a baker's shop in this city, and, when asked what her name was, answered Ida Hardwick.' You don't mean to say that you pretend to be her mother?”
“Yes, I do,” returned Peg, calmly.
“It's a lie,” said Jack, vehemently. “She isn't your daughter.”
“Young man,” said Peg, with wonderful self-command, “you are exciting yourself to no purpose. You asked me if I pretended to be her mother. I do pretend; but I admit, frankly, that it is all pretence.”
“I don't understand what you mean,” said Jack, mystified.
“Then I will take the trouble to explain it to you. As I informed your father and mother, when in New York, there are circumstances which stand in the way of Ida's real mother recognizing her as her own child. Still, as she desires her company, in order to avert all suspicion, and prevent embarrassing questions being asked, while she remains in Philadelphia she is to pass as my daughter.”