“You wouldn’t like not to see the baby, would you, Miss Margaret?”
Peggy always felt inclined to laugh when her prim attendant called her Miss Margaret. She had never been addressed by her baptismal name by any one else; but Benson was a superior person, who had lived only in the best families, and who did everything in a superior way.
“Like not to see Eve’s baby? Why, of course I shall see it—see it and nurse it, every day of my life,” answered Peggy.
“Of course, miss, if you are well enough when June comes.”
“If—I—am—well—enough,” Peggy repeated slowly, turning towards the nurse with an earnest gaze. “Perhaps you mean that I may not live till June. I heard you say something about me to the housemaid yesterday morning when she was making your bed. I was only half asleep; though I was too drowsy to speak and let you know I could hear all you were saying. You are quite wrong—both of you. I have only outgrown my strength. I shall grow up into a strong young woman, and I shall be very fond of Eve’s baby. I shall be the first aunt he will know.”
She stopped to laugh—a hoarse little laugh, which it pained Benson to hear.
“Isn’t that absurd?” she asked. “I am calling the baby ‘he.’ But I do hope it will be a boy—I adore little boys—and I’m afraid I rather hate little girls.”
“A son and heir,” said the nurse, placidly. “That will look nice in the newspapers.”
“Yes, baby will have to be in the newspapers,” agreed Peggy. “His first appearance upon any stage. I should so love to make something for him to wear. Eve is always working for him; though she contrives to keep her work a secret, even from me. ‘Mothers’-meeting work,’ she said, when I asked her what she was so busy about. As if I didn’t know better than that! One doesn’t use the finest lawn and real Valenciennes for mothers’-meeting work. Let me make something for Eve’s baby, Benson, there’s a dear. I would take such pains with my stitches.”
“It would tire you too much, Miss Margaret.”