"Have they come?" she asked of Florence, who was laying the cloth for tea.
"Yes, dear," answered the maid.
"Where are they? Where is the baby?" and, without waiting for an answer, the child ran out of the room and helter-skeltered upstairs.
In front of the nursery she stopped. It was her own room, but through the closed door she had heard a weak, shrill cry that plucked at her heart. Slowly she opened the door, then paused on the threshold, startled and disappointed.
Near the window, gazing out across the verdant Hertfordshire fields, sat a large, square-faced woman in pink print, and on her lap, face downward, wrapped in flannel, lay a baby. The nurse was slapping it on the back with quick, regular pats. Edith saw the soles of two little red feet, and at the other end a small, oblong head, covered with soft black hair.
"Oh dear!" said Edith. "Is that the baby?"
"Please shut the door, miss," said the nurse.
"I thought babies had yellow hair, with long muslin dresses and blue bows," faltered Edith.
The square-faced nurse did not answer, but continued pat—pat—pat with her large hand on the small round back.
Edith stepped a little nearer. "Why do you do that?" she asked.