“But mother doesn’t sigh from habit,” answered Rosie; “I expect there’s going to be something sad about the new little boy, and I wonder what it is. Harry, shall we collect some of our very nicest toys to have ready for the poor little new boy?”
Harry was six; he had a determined face, and was not so generous as Rosie.
“I’ll not give away my skin-horse,” he said, “so you needn’t think it, nor my white dog with the joints; there are some broken things down in that corner that he can have. But I don’t see why a new baby should have my best toys. Gee-up, Alec! you’re a horse, you know, and I’m going to race you from one end of the nursery to the other—now trot!”
Fat little curly-headed Alec started off good-humoredly, and Rosie surveyed her own shelf to see which toys would most distract the attention of the little stranger.
She was standing on a hassock, and counting her treasures over carefully, when she was startled by a loud exclamation from nurse.
“Mercy me! If that ain’t the telegraph boy coming up the drive!”
Nurse was old-fashioned enough still to regard telegrams with apprehension. She often said she could never look at one of those awful yellow envelopes, without her heart jumping into her mouth; and these fears she had, to a certain extent, infected the children with.
Harry dropped Alec’s reins, and rushed to the window; Rosie forgot her toys, and did likewise; Jack and Alec both pressed for a view from behind.
“Me, me, me, me want to see!” screamed baby Alec from the back.
Nurse lifted him into her arms; as she did so, she murmured under her breath,—