“I say—do you think you ought to squeeze him like that?”
“Oh, he doesn’t mind. He likes it. Doesn’t he? My beauty—my bird!”
“He’ll have blue eyes, Aggie.”
“No, they’ll change; they always do. And his nose is just like yours.”
“I only wish I had his head of hair.”
It was a terrible day for Arthur when the baby’s head of hair began to come off, till Aggie told him it always did that, and it would grow again.
To-day they were celebrating the first birthday of the little son. At supper that night a solemn thought came to Aggie.
“Oh, Arthur, only think. On Arty’s birthday” (they had been practising calling him “Arty” for the last fortnight) “he won’t be a baby any more.”
“Never mind; Arty’s little sister will be having her first birthday very soon after.”
Aggie blushed for pure joy, and smiled. She hadn’t thought of that. But how sad it would be for poor baby not to be the baby any more!