it was the evening after the funeral when Mrs. Wheeler whisked up the steps of the Gordon house and met Miss Rosetta coming out with a big white bundle in her arms.
The eyes of the two women met defiantly. Miss Rosetta’s face wore an air of triumph, chastened by a remembrance of the funeral that afternoon. Mrs. Wheeler’s face, except for eyes, was as expressionless as it usually was. Unlike the tall, fair, fat Miss Rosetta, Mrs. Wheeler was small and dark and thin, with an eager, careworn face.
“How is Jane?” she said abruptly, breaking the silence of ten years in saying it.
“Jane is dead and buried, poor thing,” said Miss Rosetta calmly. “I am taking her baby, little Camilla Jane, home with me.”
“The baby belongs to me,” cried Mrs. Wheeler passionately. “Jane wrote to me about her. Jane meant that I should have her. I’ve come for her.”
“You'll go back without her, then,” said Miss Rosetta, serene in the possession that is nine points of the law. “The child is mine, and she is going to stay mine. You can make up your mind to that, Charlotte Wheeler. A woman who eloped to get married isn’t fit to be trusted with a baby, anyhow. Jacob Wheeler —”
But Mrs. Wheeler had rushed past into the house. Miss Rosetta composedly stepped into the cab and
