"Does Fel know it? And it isn't Ned's brother?" seizing father by the whiskers. "And he can't set her on the wood-pile! Came down from heaven. What'm I crying for? Came down particular purpose for me."
"Yes, Totty-wax," said father, smiling, with a tear in the corner of his eye,—
"'Twas for my accommodation
Nature rose when I was born."
"Has this child had any supper?" asked mother, in a faint voice from the bed.
"No, she can't eat," laughed I; "her face looks like a roast apple."
"Your mother means you, Maggie. You are tired and excited," said cousin Lydia. "Ruth made cream-cakes to-night."
"But I shan't go, 'thout I can carry the baby. Ned's holding her. She isn't his brother. I haven't had her in my arms once. How good God was! O, dear, what teenty hands! She can't swallow 'em, on 'count of her arms. Sent particular purpose for me—father said so. 'Ria Parlin, she's nowhere near your age. You have everything, but you can't have this. She gapes. She knows how to; she's found her mouth; she's found her mouth!"
And so I ran on and on, like a brook in a freshet, and might never have stopped, if they had not taken me out of the room, and tied me in a high chair before a table full of nice things. And Ruthie stood there with a smile in her eyes, and said if I spoke another word, I shouldn't see baby again that night.
I couldn't help pitying Ned. I wasn't sure I had treated him just right. I had prayed, off and on, as much as two or three weeks in all, that God would send me a sister, and of course that was why she had come. I didn't wish Ned to know this; he would be so sorry he hadn't thought of it himself, and prayed for a brother. I told Fel about it, and she didn't know whether it was quite fair or not. "Yes, it was, too," said I; for I never would allow Fel the last word. "It was fair; Ned's older 'n me, and ought to say his prayers a great deal more reggurly."
O, that wonderful new sister! For days I never tired of admiring her.