Miss Betty had sat long before her toilette-table that evening, gazing
vacantly at the looking-glass. Not that the reflection of the eight
curl-papers she had neatly twisted up was conveyed to her brain. She was
in a brown study, during which the following thoughts passed through her
mind, and they all pointed one way:
That that fine little fellow was not to blame for his people's
misconduct.
That they would never be found.
That it would probably be the means of the poor child's ruin, body and
soul, if they were.
That the master of the neighbouring workhouse bore a bad character.
That a child costs nothing to keep--where cows are kept too--for years.
That just at the age when a boy begins to eat dreadfully and wear out
his clothes, he is very useful on a farm (though not for these reasons).
That Thomasina had taken to him.
That there need be no nonsense about it, as he could be brought up in
his proper station in life in the kitchen and the farm yard.
That tramps have souls.
That he would be taught to say his prayers.
Miss Betty said hers, and went to bed; but all through that midsummer
night the baby kept her awake, or flaunted his yellow robe and crimson
toadstool through her dreams.
The morning brought no change in Miss Betty's views, but she felt
doubtful as to how her sister would receive them.
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