She bent her head and blushed between pleasure and shame at this distinguished notice from Major Pierpoint, while Mrs. Phelps looked from one to the other, with a face on which wonder, curiosity and suspicion were as plainly written as they ever were on the face of woman. Leslie saw instantly the position in which he had placed himself, and with great presence of mind said, as if to excuse himself, while he pursued at the same time the main object he had in view—
“She is, I am told, an orphan, Mrs. Phelps. I feel deep sympathy for orphans, particularly for young unprotected females.”
Mrs. Phelps’ face immediately parted with its combined expression, which was replaced by that peculiar one which talkative women always put on when they have an opportunity of indulging their propensity. “Ah, yes,” she sighed, “ah, dear yes, Major Pierpoint, she is indeed an orphan. She is a good child, and has a face that will be either the making or the breaking of her. I feel towards her just as if she was my own flesh and blood; though, between you and I, Major, I am neither kith nor kin to her or hers, though I lets her call me aunt for affection-like.”
“Who were her parents?” asked Major Pierpoint, becoming deeply interested.
“Ah, me, it is a sad story! I never tell it but it makes me cry like a child;” and here Mrs. Phelps, in anticipation, applied the corner of her apron to her dry eyes.
“Be so kind as to relate it, madam, if you please. I shall listen to it with great interest.”
“Well, you must know when I was younger than I am now, and before dear Fritz, my husband, died, we were living in Boston, in quite respectable society, Fritz keeping a thriving store, and I living a lady, as it were, at home. But times is changed since then; ah, me! Major Pierpoint. Well, don’t you think, as I was waiting tea one winter’s night for Fritz, the bell rung, and, instead of my husband, a man left a basket of champaigne, as he said, telling the girl it was a present for our wedding day, which was to be on Saturday of the next week, sure enough, Major; we having then been married seven years. Well, I told her to set the champaigne basket down in the tea room, and soon afterwards Fritz came in. He was delighted when I showed him the present, and we both puzzled our heads to guess what friend it came from; but we sat down to the table intending to open it after we had finished tea. Mr. Phelps was taking his second cup when we both thought we heard a child cry right in the room. We started, and both asked ‘what is that?’ ‘It must be the cat,’ said Fritz, and so we sat down again. We had not taken two bites of toast before we were startled by the loud shrill scream of an infant. ‘The champaigne basket,’ exclaimed Fritz: ‘it is in the champaigne basket,’ I cried. ‘It is a baby in the champaigne basket,’ yelled the girl, letting fall the tea-kettle.