The woman looked the little girl up and down before she answered. Then she said, "Wind," and went on patting.
Edith wondered what that meant. Did it refer to the weather? or was it, perhaps, a slangy servant's way of saying, "Leave me alone" or "Hold your tongue"?
"Has the baby's mother come too?" she asked.
"Yes," said the nurse; "and when you go out, will you please shut the door behind you?"
Edith did so.
She heard voices in her mother's room, and looked in. Sitting near her mother on the sofa was a girl dressed in black, with black hair, like the baby's. She was crying bitterly into a small black-edged handkerchief.
"Oh, Edith dear," said her mother, "that's right! Come here. This is your sister Valeria. Kiss her, and tell her not to cry."
"But where is the baby's mother?" said Edith, glad to gain time before kissing the wet, unknown face.
The girl in mourning lifted her eyes, dark and swimming, from the handkerchief. "It is me," she said, with a swift, shining smile, and one of her tears rolled into a dimple and stopped there. "What a dear little girl for my baby to play with!" she added, and kissed Edith on both cheeks.
"That size baby cannot play," said Edith, drying her face with the back of her hand. "And the woman was hitting it!"