“Lawks-a-massy!” exclaimed Mrs. Blodgett, joining her hands in embarrassment and staring wildly about her, “Is it you, Judge Sancroft, speakin’, and am I, Dorinda Blodgett, a-listenin’?”
“You seem to be listening,” remarked the Judge, dryly, “but you certainly are not understanding. Please go away and search your memory and the house for that boy. Titus, what is the matter with you?”
“Are you crazy, too?” the Judge felt like adding, but fortunately for himself he did not do so. While he had been speaking the child had been creeping shyly toward him, and Titus’s eyes were glued on her. The Judge turned his eyes quickly on the little girl. Now that he examined her more closely he saw that this was no offspring from the Blodgett stock. Where had he seen before that thin band of curls, those big, solemn eyes?
“Sir,” Mrs. Blodgett was sniffling miserably, while she made a ball of her pocket handkerchief, “you aint never doubted my word afore. It’s time for me to quit your service.”
“I am not doubting your word,” he said, absently, “only—” and he again stared at the child.
“Where did you get this little girl?” he asked, shortly.
“’Tis the same little girl you brought in last evenin’, sir, the same little girl what weren’t accompanied by no boy, sure as I’m alive. Jennie, she saw her—ask her if there were a boy too.”
“Upon my word!” exclaimed the Judge, bringing his hand down on the table. “Upon my word!”
Titus’s eyes were absolutely sticking out of his head. Then he began to cough, then to laugh, then to choke.
“Sir,” said Mrs. Blodgett, uneasily, “she were dressed something like a boy outside, but inside was such a miserable little frock that I took the liberty of putting on her one of my grandchild, Mary Ann’s, outgrown party ones that I’m goin’ to give to an orphan asylum.”