“A cradle, my dear!”
It was quite true that a cradle was in the chimney corner, within three yards of Laxton’s leading authority on the subject. Moreover, it was a cradle of the latest design, a cradle of the most elegant contour, it was a cradle provided with springs and lace curtains.
Eliza blushed hotly and murmured something about Harriet having had it sent that morning. And then all at once she became so confused that she began to pour out her own tea into the slop-basin instead of the cup provided for the purpose.
“Harriet who, my dear?”
There was only one Harriet, and Eliza knew that Aunt Annie knew that. It was a mere ruse to gain time—if such a word can be used without impropriety in such connection. Eliza sought to cover her confusion by a sedulous holding of the tongue, and by an attempt to pour out her tea as if she really knew what she was about.
“What is there in it?”
The demand was point-blank. It was almost passionate.
Without waiting to be told what there was in it, Aunt Annie rose, tea cup and all, and with the glower of a sibyl drew aside the curtains.
II
Mary was sleeping. Empirical science had proved her beyond a doubt to be a Mary. And she was sleeping as the best Marys do at the age of one month and a bittock, with her thumb in her mouth—if they are allowed to do so.