“My Miriam always had a good heart,” said Mrs. Austin, quite subdued, and returning my embraces.  “And now let me call Charity to wash and comb and dress you before your mamma comes home.  You know she always likes to see you looking nicely.  But soon you must learn to do this for yourself; Charity will be wanted for other uses.”

“I know, I know,” I cried, jumping up and down; “Evelyn told me all about it yesterday,” and the flush of joy mounted to my brow.  “Won’t we be too happy, Mrs. Austin, when our own dear little brother or sister comes?” And I clasped my hands across my bare neck, hugging myself in ecstasy.

“I don’t know, child; there’s no telling.  What fingers” (holding them up wofully to the light); “every color of the rainbow!  That green stain will be very hard to get out of your nails.  How careless you are, Miriam!  But, as I was saying, there’s no telling what to expect from an unborn infant.  It’s wrong to speculate on such uncertainties; it’s tempting Providence, Miriam.  In the first place, it may be deformed, I shouldn’t wonder—­that lame boy about so much—­short of one leg, at least.”

“Deformed!  O Mrs. Austin! how dreadful!  I never thought of that.”  And I began to shiver before her mysterious suggestions.

“Or it may be a poor, senseless idiot like Johnny Gibson. He comes here for broken victuals constantly, you know, and your mamma sees him.”

“Mrs. Austin, don’t talk so, for pity’s sake,” catching at her gown wildly; “don’t! you frighten me to death.”

“Or it may be (stand still directly, Miriam, and let met get this paint off your ear)—­or it may be, for aught we know or can help, born with a hard, proud, wicked heart, that may show itself in bad actions—­cruelty, deceit, or even—­” she hesitated, drearily.

“Mrs. Austin, sha’n’t say such things about that poor, innocent little thing,” I cried out, stamping my foot impatiently, “that isn’t even born.”

“Well, well; there’s no use rejoicing too soon, that’s all I mean to say.  And why you should be glad, child, to have your own nose broken, is more than I can see,” with a deep and awful groan.

“For pity’s sake, stop!  I am glad, I will be glad, there now! as glad as I please, just because I know mamma will be glad, and papa will be glad, and George Gaston will be glad, and because I do so adore babies, sin or no sin; I can’t help what you think; I say it again, I do adore them.  No, I ain’t afraid of ‘God’s eternal anger’ at all for saying so; not a bit afraid.  What does He make them so sweet for if He does not expect us to love them dearly—­His little angels on earth?  Whenever a baby passes here with its nurse, I run after it and stop it and play with it as long as I can; and oh, I wish so often we had one of our own here at home!” embracing myself again with enthusiasm.

“Evelyn is right; you are a very absurd child, Miriam,” she said, smiling, in spite of her efforts to keep grave; “very silly, even.”