“Well, Marilla, I’ll just tell you plain that I think you’re doing a mighty foolish thing⁠—a risky thing, that’s what. You don’t know what you’re getting. You’re bringing a strange child into your house and home and you don’t know a single thing about him nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of parents he had nor how he’s likely to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up west of the Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at night⁠—set it on purpose , Marilla⁠—and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs⁠—they couldn’t break him of it. If you had asked my advice in the matter⁠—which you didn’t do, Marilla⁠—I’d have said for mercy’s sake not to think of such a thing, that’s what.”

This Job’s comforting seemed neither to offend nor alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily on.