Chapter Five.
Treats still further of Riches, Poverty, Babies, and Police.
When Mr and Mrs Twitter had dismissed the few friends that night, they sat down at their own fireside, with no one near them but the little foundling, which lay in the youngest Twitter’s disused cradle, gazing at them with its usual solemnity, for it did not seem to require sleep. They opened up their minds to each other thus:—
“Now, Samuel,” said Mrs Twitter, “the question is, what are you going to do with it?”
“Well, Mariar,” returned her spouse, with an assumption of profound gravity, “I suppose we must send it to the workhouse.”
“You know quite well, Sam, that you don’t mean that,” said Mrs Twitter, “the dear little forsaken mite! Just look at its solemn eyes. It has been clearly cast upon us, Sam, and it seems to me that we are bound to look after it.”
“What! with six of our own, Mariar?”
“Yes, Sam. Isn’t there a song which says something about luck in odd numbers?”
“And with only 500 pounds a year?” objected Mr Twitter.
“Only five hundred. How can you speak so? We are rich with five hundred. Can we not educate our little ones?”