“Tarascon,” called the brakeman. “Tarascon.”
· · · · · · ·
I was on the hot veranda of the Croxton House, at Croxton, some two weeks later, when I felt a modest hand on my shoulder.
“Boy or girl?” were my first words, with a grin.
“Girl,” announced the father with pride. “Sophronia Judith Rose. Named for my sisters.”
He seated himself, fished in his pocket for his pipe, and smiled nervously.
“They knew it when I got home,” he said. “I’d left Edyth’s letter in my room. I believe they had been suspecting all along. Well, they never said a thing at supper, but when I went upstairs I saw a string of baby ribbon sticking out of my sample case. The girls had packed it full of things from their hope boxes. Baby things, they were.
“I tried to bluff it out, but I—I couldn’t do it, and I’d told them all about it five minutes after I came downstairs.
“We all took the train for Tarascon the next day. Edyth was tickled—said she’d suspected I had sisters. She hadn’t, though, of course.
“So I had to name the baby for them. Weighed eleven pounds, too.