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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:
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.
In his extremity, he looked up to God and found relief in rolling his care upon Him. As he slowly recovered from the shock, Twitter's brain resumed its wonted activity. "You have a number of clerks, I believe?" he suddenly asked the hardware man. "Yes, I have four of them." "Would you object to taking me through your warehouse, as if to show it to me, and allow me to look at your clerks?"
It had not strength to cry. The burly little man's soul was touched to the centre by the sight. He kissed the baby's forehead, pressed it to his ample breast, and hurried away. If he had taken time to think he might have gone to a police-office, or a night refuge, or some such haven of rest for the weary, but when Twitter's feelings were touched he became a man of impulse.
Well, Mrs Twitter had her few friends to tea, and conviviality was at its height. The subject of conversation was poverty. Mrs Loper, a weak-minded but amiable lady, asserted that a large family with 500 pounds a year was a poor family. Mrs Loper did not know that Mrs Twitter's income was five hundred, but she suspected it.
He was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed. Next morning early before breakfast Mrs Twitter assembled all the little Twitters, and put them on chairs in a row according to order, for Mrs Twitter's mind was orderly in a remarkable degree.
Mr Stickler," suddenly interrupted a stout, smiling lady, named Larrabel, who usually did the audience part of Mrs Twitter's little tea parties, "how can you suggest such ideas, especially when Mr Twitter is unusually late?" Mr Stickler protested that he had no intention of alarming the company by disagreeable suggestions, that he had spoken of accident, robbery, and murder in the abstract.
He has already introduced himself to the reader under the name of Samuel Twitter. On the night of which we write Mrs Twitter happened to have a "few friends" to tea. And let no one suppose that Mrs Twitter's few friends were to be put off with afternoon tea that miserable invention of modern times nor with a sham meal of sweet warm water and thin bread and butter. By no means.
The conversation by the way was not sufficiently interesting to be worthy of record. Arrived at Twitter's street an idea struck Mrs Frog. "Ned," said she, "I'm tired." "Well, old girl, you'd better cut home." "I think I will, Ned, but first I'll sit down on this step to rest a bit."
As the night advanced, however, the alarm became deeper, and it was even suggested by Mrs Loper that Crackaby should proceed to Twitter's office a distance of three miles to inquire whether and when he had left; while the smiling Mrs Larrabel proposed to send information to the headquarters of the police in Scotland Yard, because the police knew everything, and could find out anything.
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