"Joe and I have adopted it," gurgled Eliza at last.
Aunt Annie drew herself up to her full, formidable, dragoon-like height of five feet ten inches, and gazed sublimely down from that Olympian elevation.
"Then why not say so, my dear, in so many words, without making yourself so profoundly ridiculous?"
III
With tingling ears, Eliza humbly admitted her fault But as soon as she had done so, there arose a serious problem, for a simple creature in whose sight the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth was very precious. Aunt Annie began to ask questions—questions which forbade a person of ordinary discretion to answer with candor.
Whose was the child? What was its origin? What did the parents? Why did the parents? When did the parents? Did Eliza fully realize the grave nature of the responsibility she was taking upon herself?
It was the last question of the series that Eliza answered first. And this she did for a sufficient reason: to answer the others was wholly beyond her power.
"We may be doing a very unwise thing," said Eliza. "Joe and I know that."
"I am sure I hope you do, my dear. But tell me, where did you get it?"
The voice of truth enjoined on a doorstep in Grosvenor Square, but the voice of prudence said otherwise. And the voice of prudence sounded a very clear and masterful note in Eliza's ear, for Joe, Harriet, and
