“By Jove! won’t he laugh when he grows up, and I tell him that I nursed him when he was little?” said Willie, proudly.
“Oh, he might die!” said Doris, bursting into tears. “He might never grow up—he might die.”
Then Miss Gibson had to pacify her and promise her she would make toffee for tea, and so peace was restored again.
For the next few weeks nothing was talked of excepting the new baby, and while they were supposed to be studying or doing their homework they would wonder what colour eyes it would have, and if “it” would be cranky or good, and if “it” would like bush life or rather go to Sydney and study like Frank. It would nearly fill a book with their wonderings, and all the time the time was drawing near when “it” would be home with them.
“I suppose ‘it’ won’t be very pretty,” Eileen would say. “It will be too little for a long time yet.”
“I wonder what’ll we call it,” said Eva.
They ran through hundreds of names, but none of them would suit.
“What about Teddo?” asked Doris, struck by a bright inspiration.
“Oh, yes, let’s call him Teddo!” cried Willie.
“Oh, no!” said Eileen—“not Teddo. Teddo’s all right—for—well—for Teddo, but it won’t do for our little brother.”