“My dear Jane!” cried my mother.
“Good heavens, Clara, do you see?” exclaimed Miss Murdstone.
“See what, my dear Jane?” said my mother; “where?”
“He’s got it!” cried Miss Murdstone. “The boy has got the baby!”
She was limp with horror; but stiffened herself to make a dart at me, and take it out of my arms. Then, she turned faint; and was so very ill, that they were obliged to give her cherry-brandy. I was solemnly interdicted by her, on her recovery, from touching my brother any more on any pretence whatever; and my poor mother, who, I could see, wished otherwise, meekly confirmed the interdict, by saying: “No doubt you are right, my dear Jane.”
On another occasion, when we three were together, this same dear baby—it was truly dear to me, for our mother’s sake—was the innocent occasion of Miss Murdstone’s going into a passion. My mother, who had been looking at its eyes as it lay upon her lap, said:
“Davy! come here!” and looked at mine.
I saw Miss Murdstone lay her beads down.
“I declare,” said my mother, gently, “they are exactly alike. I suppose they are mine. I think they are the color of mine. But they are wonderfully alike.”
“What are you talking about, Clara?” said Miss Murdstone.