“My dear three bears,” it said—it was papa, of course, “be so good as to shut your eyes tight till I tell you to open them, and then Mary can finish.” They did shut their eyes—they heard papa come into the room and cross over to the corner which they had not looked at. Then there was a little rustling—then he called out:
“All right. Open your eyes. Now, Mary, Tiny Bear, fire away. Somebody’s lying—”
“In my bed,” said Mary, as she opened her eyes, thinking to herself how very funny papa was.
But when her eyes were quite open she did stare. For there he was beckoning to her from the corner where he was standing beside a dear little bed, all white lace or muslin—Mary called all sorts of stuff like that “lace”—and pink ribbons.
“Oh,” said Mary, running across the room, “that’s my bed. Mamma showed it me one day. It were my bed when I was a little girl.”
“Of course, it’s your bed,” said her father. “I told you to be Tiny Bear and say, ‘somebody’s lying in my bed.’ Somebody is lying in your bed. Look and see.”
Mary raised herself up on her tiptoes and peeped in. On the soft white pillow a little head was resting—a little head with dark fluffy curls all over it—Mary could not see all the curls, for there was a flannel shawl drawn round the little head, but she could see the face and the curls above the forehead. “It,” this wonderful new doll, seemed to be asleep—its eyes were shut, and its mouth was a tiny bit open, and it was breathing very softly. It had a dear little button of a nose, and it was rather pink all over. It looked very cosy and peaceful, and there seemed a sweet sort of lavendery scent all about the bed and the pretty new flannel blankets and the embroidered coverlet. That was pretty—white cashmere worked with tiny rosebuds. Mary remembered seeing her mamma working at it, and it was lined with pale pink silk. But just then, though Mary saw all these things and noticed them, yet, in another way, she did not see them. For all her real seeing and noticing went to the living thing in this dear little nest, the little, soft, sleeping, breathing face, that she gazed at as if she could never leave off. And behind her, gazing too, though Mary had the best place, of course, as it was her birthday and she was a girl—behind her stood her brothers. For a few seconds, which seemed longer to the children, there was perfect silence in the room. It was a strange wonderful silence. Mary never forgot it.
Her breath came fast, her heart seemed to beat in a different way, her little face, which was generally rather pale, grew flushed. And then at last she turned to her father who was waiting quietly. He did not want to interrupt them. “Like as if we were saying our prayers, wasn’t it?” Artie said afterwards. But when Mary turned she felt that he had been watching them all the time, and there was a very nice smile on his face.
“Papa,” she said. She seemed as if she could not get out another word, “papa—is it?”
“Yes, darling,” he replied, “it is. It’s a baby sister. Isn’t that the nicest present you ever had?”