“Well?” said Miss Betsey, coming back to her chair, as if she had only been taking a casual look at the prospect; “and when do you expect——”
“I am all in a tremble,” faltered my mother. “I don’t know what’s the matter. I shall die, I am sure!”
“No, no, no,” said Miss Betsey. “Have some tea.”
“Oh dear me, dear me, do you think it will do me any good?” cried my mother in a helpless manner.
“Of course it will,” said Miss Betsey. “It’s nothing but fancy. What do you call your girl?”
“I don’t know that it will be a girl, yet, ma’am,” said my mother innocently.
“Bless the Baby!” exclaimed Miss Betsey, unconsciously quoting the second sentiment of the pincushion in the drawer up-stairs, but applying it to my mother instead of me, “I don’t mean that. I mean your servant-girl.”
“Peggotty,” said my mother.
“Peggotty!” repeated Miss Betsey, with some indignation. “Do you mean to say, child, that any human being has gone into a Christian church, and got herself named Peggotty?”
“It’s her surname,” said my mother, faintly. “Mr. Copperfield called her by it, because her Christian name was the same as mine.”