“Isn’t she a dear, though?”
“Now, girls,” suggested Louise, “suppose we give Uncle John and the major a peep at her.”
Reluctantly the bundle was abandoned to its mother, who carried it to where Mr. Merrick was nervously standing. “Yes, yes,” he said, touching one cheek gently with the tip of his finger. “It—it’s a fine child, Louise; really a—a—creditable child. But—eh—isn’t it rather—soft?”
“Of course, Uncle John. All babies are soft. Aren’t you going to kiss little Jane?”
“It—won’t—hurt it?”
“Not a bit. Haven’t Beth and Patsy nearly kissed its skin off?”
“Babies,” asserted Major Doyle, stiffly, “were made to be kissed. Anyhow, that’s the penalty they pay for being born helpless.” And with this he kissed little Jane on both cheeks with evident satisfaction.
This bravado encouraged Uncle John to do likewise, but after the operation he looked sheepish and awkward, as if he felt that he had taken an unfair advantage of the wee lady.
“She seems very red, Louise,” he remarked, to cover his embarrassment.
“Oh, no, Uncle! Everyone says she’s the whitest baby of her age they ever saw. She’s only five months old, remember.”