she were fully agreed that the true story must not be given to the world. Diplomacy was called for. Such a forthright creature was quite universed in that dubious art, but she must prepare to use it now.
"I promised I wouldn't tell." Alas! that crude formula was all in the way of guile that poor flustered Eliza could muster at the moment.
Less by instinctive cleverness than by divine accident there was a world of meaning, however, in that faltering tone. And a word to the wise is sufficient. There was not a wiser woman in England than Aunt Annie, except—of course, that is to say!—speaking merely for the lieges of the realm—.
"Very well, I don't press the question." It was the tone she had once accidentally overheard a very great Personage use to Lord Gr-nv-lle.
Eliza sighed relief.
"But, let me say this," Aunt Annie looked steadily at her niece. "I ask no questions in regard to the parents, but whoever they may be, you must know that you run a risk. The offspring of a regular union are often unsatisfactory, the offspring of an irregular union, although I praise heaven I have had no personal experience of them, always bring sorrow to those with whom they have to do."
Eliza could only reply that the creature was such a dear lamb that she was quite prepared to take the risk. Aunt Annie shook a solemn head at her niece, and then surveyed the infant in true professional style. The babe still slept. Before the great critic and connoisseur made any comment she removed the thumb from the delightful
