“It was best not to arouse their suspicions before she could be identified,” said the lawyer. “It's easy enough to take her when we know she is the child we want.”
“Maybe so,” said the Quaker's wife.
“Easy enough. The vagabonds can't put themselves beyond arrest before we can reach them, and on the other hand, they could make a case against us if we meddle with them unnecessarily. Since Mrs. Tracy came West a couple of weeks ago, and since she engaged me in her cause, we have had a dozen wrong parties drawn up for examination; children of all ages and sizes.”
“Did she,” inquired Mrs. Tracy, bringing her chair close to Grandma Padgett and resting appealing eyes on the blue glasses, “have hair that curled? Rather long hair for a child of her years.”
“Yes'm,” replied Grandma Padgett with dignified tenderness. “Long for a child about five or six, as I took her to be. But she was babyish for all that.”
“Yes—oh, yes!” said Mrs. Tracy.
“And curly. How long since you lost her?”
The lady from Baltimore sobbed on her handkerchief, but recovered with a resolute effort, and replied:
“It was nearly three months ago. She was on the street with her nurse, and was taken away almost miraculously. We could not find a trace. Her papa is dead, but I have always kept his memory alive to her. My friends have helped me search, but it has seemed day after day as if I could not bear the strain any longer.”
Grandma Padgett took off her glasses and polished them.