CHAPTER XXVIII
Annoyed at being interrupted in the midst of his lullaby, to three, Alfred looked up to see Maggie, hatless and out of breath, bursting into the room, and destroying what was to him an ideally tranquil home scene. But Maggie paid no heed to Alfred's look of inquiry. She made directly for the side of Zoie's bed.
“If you plaze, mum,” she panted, looking down at Zoie, and wringing her hands.
“What is it?” asked Aggie, who had now reached the side of the bed.
“'Scuse me for comin' right in”—Maggie was breathing hard—“but me mother sint me to tell you that me father is jus afther comin' home from work, and he's fightin' mad about the babies, mum.”
“Sh! Sh!” cautioned Aggie and Zoie, as they glanced nervously toward Alfred who was rising from his place beside the cradle with increasing interest in Maggie's conversation.
“Babies?” he repeated, “your father is mad about babies?”
“It's all right, dear,” interrupted Zoie nervously; “you see,” she went on to explain, pointing toward the trembling Maggie, “this is our washerwoman's little girl. Our washerwoman has had twins, too, and it made the wash late, and her husband is angry about it.”
“Oh,” said Alfred, with a comprehensive nod, but Maggie was not to be so easily disposed of.
“If you please, mum,” she objected, “it ain't about the wash. It's about our baby girls.”