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Miss Rosetta had exulted in the possession of little Camilla Jane for a month, and had been so happy that she had almost given up inveighing against Charlotte. Her conversations, instead of tending always to Jacob Wheeler, now ran Camilla Janeward; and this, folks thought, was an improvement.

One afternoon, Miss Rosetta, leaving Camilla Jane snugly sleeping in her cradle in the kitchen, had slipped down to the bottom of the garden to pick her currants. The house was hidden from her sight by the copse of cherry trees, but she had left the kitchen window open, so that she could hear the baby if it awakened and cried. Miss Rosetta sang happily as she picked her currants. For the first time since Charlotte had married Jacob Wheeler Miss Rosetta felt really happy–so happy that at there was no room in her heart for bitterness. In fancy she looked forward to the coming years, and saw Camilla Jane growing up into girlhood, fair and lovable.

“She’ll be a beauty,” reflected Miss Rosetta complacently. “Jane was a handsome girl. She shall always be dressed as nice as I can manage it, and I’ll get her an organ, and have her take painting and music lessons. Parties, too! I’ll give her a real coming-out party when she’s eighteen and the very prettiest dress that’s to be had. Dear me, I can hardly wait for her to grow up, though she’s sweet enough now to make one wish she could stay a baby forever.”

When Miss Rosetta returned to the kitchen, her eyes fell on an empty cradle. Camilla Jane was gone!

Miss Rosetta promptly screamed. She understood at a glance what had happened. Six months’ old babies do not get out of their cradles and disappear through closed doors without any assistance.

“Charlotte has been here,” gasped Miss Rosetta. “Charlotte has stolen Camilla Jane! I might have expected it. I might have known when I heard that story about her buying muslin and flannel. It’s just like Charlotte to do such an underhand trick. But I’ll go after her! I’ll show her! She’ll find out she has got Rosetta Ellis to deal with and no Wheeler!”

Like a frantic creature and wholly forgetting that her hair was in curl-papers, Miss Rosetta hurried up the hill and down the shore road to the Wheeler Farm–a place she had never visited in her life before.

The wind was off-shore and only broke the bay’s surface into long silvery ripples, and sent sheeny shadows flying out across it from every point and headland, like transparent wings.

The little gray house, so close to the purring waves that in storms their spray splashed over its very doorstep, seemed deserted. Miss Rosetta pounded lustily on the front door. This producing no result, she marched around to the back door and knocked. No answer. Miss Rosetta tried the door. It was locked.

“Guilty conscience,” sniffed Miss Rosetta. “Well, I shall stay here until I see that perfidious Charlotte, if I have to camp in the yard all night.”

Miss Rosetta was quite capable of doing this, but she was spared the necessity; walking boldly up to the kitchen window, and peering through it, she felt her heart swell with anger as she beheld Charlotte sitting calmly by the table with Camilla Jane on her knee. Beside her was a befrilled and bemuslined cradle, and on a chair lay the garments in which Miss Rosetta had dressed the baby. It was clad in an entirely new outfit, and seemed quite at home with its new possessor. It was laughing and cooing, and making little dabs at her with its dimpled hands.

“Charlotte Wheeler,” cried Miss Rosetta, rapping sharply on the window-pane. “I’ve come for that child! Bring her out to me at once–at once, I say! How dare you come to my house and steal a baby? You’re no better than a common burglar. Give me Camilla Jane, I say!”