ight be that to some
minds--certainly to that of the black sheep--visions of violated
blue-ribbonism occurred. As certainly these visions did _not_ occur to
Mrs Twitter. She would sooner have doubted her clergyman than her
husband. Trustfulness formed a prominent part of her character, and her
confidence in her Sam was unbounded.

Even when her husband came against the drawing-room door with an awkward
bang--the passage being dark--opened it with a fling, and stood before
the guests with a flushed countenance, blazing eyes, a peculiar
deprecatory smile, and a dirty ragged bundle in his arms, she did not
doubt him.

"Forgive me, my dear," he said, gazing at his wife in a manner that
might well have justified the black sheep's thought, "screwed," "I--I--
business kept me in the office very late, and then--" He cast an
imbecile glance at the bundle.

"What _ever_ have you got there, Sam?" asked his wondering wife.

"Goodness me! it moves!" exclaimed Mrs Loper.

"Live poultry!" thought the black sheep, and visions of police cells and
penal servitude floated before his depraved mental vision.

"Yes, Mrs Loper, it moves. It is alive--though not very much alive, I
fear. My dear, I've found--found a baby--picked it up in the street.
Not a soul there but me. Would have perished or been trodden on if I
had not taken it up. See here!"

He untied the dirty bundle as he spoke, and uncovered the round little
pinched face with the great solemn eyes, which gazed, still wonderingly,
at the assembled company.

It is due to the assembled company to add that it returned the gaze with
compound interest.

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 a