but I don’t think so, for that was a miracle if ever there was one.”
“The days of miracles are indeed over, ma’am,” said the black sheep, “but then that is no reason why things which are in themselves commonplace should not appear miraculous to the uninstructed mind. When I inform you that our laws compel cabmen under heavy penalties to convey left umbrellas and parcels to the police-office, the miracle may not seem quite so surprising.”
Most people dislike to have their miracles unmasked. Mrs Larrabel turned from the black sheep to her hostess without replying, and repeated her suggestion about making inquiries at Scotland Yard—thus delicately showing that although, possibly, convinced, she was by no means converted.
They were interrupted at this point by a hurried knock at the street door.
“There he is at last,” exclaimed every one.
“It is his knock, certainly,” said Mrs Twitter, with a perplexed look, “but rather peculiar—not so firm as usual—there it is again! Impatient! I never knew my Sam impatient before in all our wedded life. You’d better open the door, dear,” she said, turning to the eldest Twitter, he being the only one of the six who was privileged to sit up late, “Mary seems to have fallen asleep.”
Before the eldest Twitter could obey, the maligned Mary was heard to open the door and utter an exclamation of surprise, and her master’s step was heard to ascend the stair rather unsteadily.
The guests looked at each other anxiously. It might 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 are bound to look after it.”
“What! with six of our own, Mariar?”
“Yes, Sam. Isn’t there a song which says something about luck in odd numbers?”
“And with only 500 pounds a year?” objected Mr Twitter.
“Only five hundred. How can you speak so? We are rich with five hundred. Can we not educate our little ones?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And entertain our friends?”
“Yes, my love,—with crumpets and tea.”
“Don’t forget muffins and bloater paste, and German sausage and occasional legs of mutton, you ungrateful man!”
“I don’t forget ’em, Mariar. My recollection of ’em is powerful; I may even say vivid.”
“Well,” continued the lady, “haven’t you been able to lend small sums on several occasions to friends—”
“Yes, my dear,—and they are still loans,” murmured the husband.
“And don’t we give a little—I sometimes think too little—regularly to the poor, and to the church, and haven’t we got a nest-egg laid by in the Post-office savings-bank?”
“All true, Mariar, and all your doing. But for your thrifty ways, and economical tendencies, and rare financial abilities, I should have been bankrupt long ere now.”
Mr Twitter was nothing more than just in this statement of his wife’s character. She was one of those happily constituted women who make the best and the most of everything, and who, while by no means turning her eyes away from the dark sides of things, nevertheless gave people the impression that she saw only their bright sides. Her economy would have degenerated into nearness if it had not been commensurate with her liberality, for while, on the one hand, she was ever anxious, almost eager, to give to the needy and suffering every penny that she could spare, she was, on the other hand, strictly economical in trifles. Indeed Mrs Twitter’s vocabulary did not contain the word trifle. One of her favourite texts of Scripture, which was always in her mind, and which she had illuminated in gold and hung on her bedroom walls with many other words of God, was, “Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost.” Acting on this principle with all her heart, she gathered up the fragments of time, so that she had always a good deal of that commodity to spare, and was never in a hurry. She gathered up bits of twine and made neat little rings of them, which she deposited in a basket—a pretty large basket—which in time became such a repository of wealth in that respect that the six Twitters never failed to find the exact size and quality of cordage wanted by them—and, indeed, even after the eldest, Sammy, came to the years of discretion, if he had suddenly required a cable suited to restrain a first-rate iron-clad, his mind would, in the first blush of the thing, have reverted to mother’s basket! If friends wrote short notes to Mrs Twitter—which they often did, for the sympathetic find plenty of correspondents—the blank leaves were always torn off and consigned to a scrap-paper box, and the pile grew big enough at last to have set up a small stationer in business. And so with everything that came under her influence at home or abroad. She emphatically did what she could to prevent waste, and became a living fulfilment of the well-known proverb, for as she wasted not she wanted not.
But
