trace of the wanton visitor.  In the meantime, Mrs. Crow, assisted by the entire family, had stowed the infant, a six-weeks-old girl, into a warm bed, ministering to the best of her ability to its meagre but vociferous wants.  There was no more sleep in the Crow establishment that night.  The head of the house roused a half dozen neighbours from their beds to tell them of the astounding occurrence, with the perfectly natural result that one and all hurried over to see the baby and to hear the particulars.

Early next morning Tinkletown wagged with an excitement so violent that it threatened to end in a municipal convulsion.  Anderson Crow’s home was besieged.  The snow in his front yard was packed to an icy consistency by the myriad of footprints that fell upon it; the interior of the house was “tracked” with mud and slush and three window panes were broken by the noses of curious but unwelcome spectators.  Altogether, it was a sensation unequalled in the history of the village.  Through it all the baby blinked and wept and cooed in perfect peace, guarded by Mrs. Crow and the faithful progeny who had been left by the stork, and not by a mysterious stranger.

The missionary societies wanted to do something heroic, but Mrs. Crow headed them off; the sewing circle got ready to take charge of affairs, but Mrs. Crow punctured the project; figuratively, the churches ached for a chance to handle the infant, but Mrs. Crow stood between.  And all Tinkletown called upon Anderson Crow to solve the mystery before it was a day older.

“It’s purty hard to solve a mystery that’s got six weeks’ start o’ me,” said Anderson despairingly, “but I’ll try, you bet.  The doggone thing’s got a parent or two somewhere in the universe, an’ I’ll locate ’em er explode somethin’.  I’ve got a private opinion about it myself.”

Whatever this private opinion might have been, it was not divulged.  Possibly something in connection with it might have accounted for the temporary annoyance felt by nearly every respectable woman in Tinkletown.  The marshal eyed each and every one of them, irrespective of position, condition or age, with a gleam so accusing that the Godliest of them flushed and then turned cold.  So knowing were these equitable looks that before night every woman in the village was constrained to believe the worst of her neighbour, and almost as ready to look with suspicion upon herself.

One thing was certain—­business was at a standstill in Tinkletown.  The old men forgot their chess and checker games at the corner store; young men neglected their love affairs; women forgot to talk about each other; children froze their ears rather than miss any of the talk that went about the wintry streets; everybody was asking the question, “Whose baby is it?”

But the greatest sensation of all came late in the day when Mrs. Crow, in going over the garments worn by the babe, found a note addressed to Anderson Crow.  It was stitched to the baby’s dress, and proved beyond question that the strange visitor of the night before had selected not only the house, but the individual.  The note was to the point.  It said: