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 besides, a priest’s house is a sort of sacred place. I followed the sound of the cry, and there, sure enough, just under the hazel bush, there was the baby nicely made up in a little white pillow-bed. It is about eight weeks old. Under its head there was a parcel neatly sewed up in black oilcloth, and sealed with red wax. What was I to do? First I thought to leave the baby where it was, and run to the warden as the official person, and bring him into the garden; but the world is wicked, and farmers are a long way off from the angels; so I decided to take the baby into the house, and to send for you to come home immediately, that we might advise about the matter thoroughly before we do anything. The baby grew quiet in my arms, and fell asleep in my bed, where I made a nice soft place for it. The black parcel I locked up in my trunk; such things are safest under lock and key.”

“You did well,” said the priest, approvingly. “And did you not look about the house, to find out if any strange person was to be seen?”

“I did not; I was afraid to leave the baby. What if the poor thing had been dying?”

“True.”

“After a good while I stepped out of the house, and just saw young Frank Kozman going by. I sent him after you at once to Suchdol. In the mean time I gave the baby some milk, when it woke. That’s all I know.”

The priest tapped his fingers on the book lying before him, and whistled softly. He was in the habit of doing this when thinking deeply. Naninka observed, after a while, “The baby is growing restless; I must change its things. But with what?—that is the question. Put those books away from the table,