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 drove to the station. She
fairly bridled with triumph; and underneath the triumph ran a
queer undercurrent of satisfaction over the fact that Charlotte
had spoken to her at last. Miss Rosetta would not look at this