The nameless child had a sweet placidity which appealed to the Squire.
"I suppose she has teeth to cut, too," he said, "but you see she doesn't cry."
"She cried loud enough while I was dressing her," retorted Barbara.
"Put them on the floor side by side," ordered the Squire.
The two infants were set down at his command. They were both at the crawling stage of existence, that early dawn in which humanity goes upon all fours. They seemed about the same size and age, as nearly as might be guessed. They had eyes and hair of the same colour, and had that resemblance common to pretty children. The heiress had a sicklier air than the waif, and was less beautiful in colouring.
"They would pass for twin sisters," said Bosworth; "come, now, Mistress Bridget, do you think you would know them apart?"
Bridget resented the suggestion as an insult to her affection and her intellect.
"I should know my own little darling anywheres," she said; "and this strange child ain't half so pretty."
"There's a mark she'll carry for life, anyhow," said Barbara Layburne, taking up the stranger, and baring the baby's right arm just where it joined the shoulder. "A burn or a scald, you see, Squire. I can't say which it is, but I don't think she'll outlive the scar."
Bosworth glanced at it indifferently.