"I only want to do what is right," said Penelope, a little dismayed at the suggestion, "right to ourselves, and right to this baby. I feel for the little waif, Tilly, though I do not become rapturous like you."
"As to the baby, then, just think. It seems unlikely that it would have been laid on our verandah if its friends had wanted to keep it at home. Even if we could return it to them we could not make them keep it, or use it kindly; and there seem to be only three other ways of disposing of it--the Protestant Orphans' Home, the Grey Nunnery, or to adopt it ourselves. Now, suppose we were to do the last--I do not propose it, mind; but, after there seems no more likelihood of its being claimed, if we should--would it be nice to have our protegée spoken of as a foundling, and nobody's child? Would it not tell against her when she grew up, and we took her into society with us, as of course we should if we reared her ourselves?"
"But, my dear, the child has not been twelve hours in the house yet, and to hear you, one would say you are already dreaming of bringing it up! I have known you all your life, Tilly, and I never heard you discuss at such length before; but what you say seems reasonable enough. It would not be nice to have Amelia making fun of our perplexities, and yet there is no one else we can go to, whose advice we could trust in like Mr. Jordan's. For yourself, now, what do you think we should do?"
"I think we should do nothing! Nobody can blame us for doing that. It is no affair of ours, and if only we are kind to the little one till a claimant appears, or till we see more plainly what we should do, we can get nothing but praise and thanks for our charity."
To do nothing is always an inviting course, in times of perplexity, especially when it is the interest of another rather than our own which is most deeply involved; we cannot then be blamed for doing the wrong thing, even if we have failed to do the right one. Time, too, has a way of winding up affairs left open, which is often more satisfactory than the half-wise efforts of meddlesome mortals. Miss Stanley accepted the invitation to inaction and let things take their course.
That day was a royal one for Miss Matilda. Instead of loitering between her flowers and her sofa, fanning herself and dropping asleep, a new interest had come into her life; and such a pretty one! It crept and rolled and tumbled about on the matting at her feet; while she sat at her worktable in the bay window with scissors and cambric, sewing strange garments, and pricking her fingers a good deal, for the needle was an unfamiliar implement in her hands; but she went bravely on with unflagging industry, stopping only to get fresh bread and milk, when she imagined the little one must be hungry, or to find a pillow when it wanted to sleep.
The newspapers came in the afternoon as usual, but she had no leisure to waste on them; the plaything at her feet was far too engrossing. Even Penelope only glanced over the column of "Born," "Died" and "Married"--there is no "Divorced" in a Canadian paper, as in American ones--in search of any known name, and then sat down to wonder at Matilda's new-born energy and admire the baby.
These ladies were not very thorough-going newspaper readers, although they lived in the country and saw few visitors. The two city newspapers they received each day were always torn open, the marriages and deaths glanced at, and sometimes the fashions, if it was their time for getting new bonnets; but politics bewildered them, and the local gossip had ceased to be interesting, it was so long since they had lived in town. Their bookseller sent them magazines and boxes of books, their home was comfortable, and life moved on smoothly, like a door on well-oiled hinges. They forgot to crave for outside interests and excitements, and the energies which in town life might have found scope in arranging or disarranging their neighbours' concerns, took gentler exercise over roses, geraniums, chickens, bees, or a rheumatic habitant, especially if he spoke prettily and was respectful.
It was only as might be expected, then, that nothing in the newspapers relating to their little waif ever met their eyes. The parson--their only visiting neighbour at that time--was away for his summer vacation; the friends who sometimes came to them from Montreal were at the seaside, so there was no one to talk with, and they heard nothing; which indeed was as they liked it best. All through the remainder of that Summer and Golden Fall, these two women, not very young, revelled in a new-found joy--the sudden awakening within them of the holy instinct of motherhood--the double living, living in another life besides their own, the joyous wondering progressive life of childhood--re-entering anew a world still dew-bright in the morning freshness which it loses as life wears on; and their hearts grew purer and their thoughts simpler, in this unlooked for return to the Eden of long ago.
Before two months had passed they had come to recognize their little visitor as a member of the household and one of the family--"of our own family, sister," Matilda said one day. "Let us make her a Stanley and call her our niece--Muriel Stanley. What do you say?"