“Whose child is he?” asked the Judge.
The woman turned to Titus with an impatient gesture. “You say it. His mustache do cover his lips. I can’t see ’em.”
“P-parents,” cried Titus, “of that boy. Who is his mother?”
“Mother!” repeated Mrs. Tingsby, “nay, that I can’t say till I finds an owner for the child. ‘Susan Tingsby,’ said his ma when she lay a-dyin’ in this very house, ‘Susan Tingsby, you’ve been a good friend to me. When the Lord sends some one to take my baby tell my poor story, such as it is’—an’, sir, I’ve kept the child these ten months. Often I’ve hardly had bread for me own, but the child of the stranger never suffered.”
The Judge sat quietly for a few minutes. Now that his attention was called to the fact that the woman was not the child’s mother he saw quite a difference in their faces. Mrs. Tingsby’s sharp, dark features were very unlike the pale, plump face of the little one.
“Yes!” she suddenly ejaculated, “the child’s fat enough.”
The Judge looked at her. Though deaf she was not stupid, and she was marvelously clever at understanding one’s thoughts.
“The children of the poor is mostly that,” she continued. “Much sour bread puffs ’em out, an’ likewise fresh air which they has plenty of. But bless your heart, it aint good flesh like rich children’s. Newmania and consumption takes ’em off like smoke.”
“Ask her to what station in life the boy’s mother belonged,” said the Judge to Titus.
“W-w-was its mother a lady?” vociferated the boy, with a nod toward the child.