“A—­a girl?” Clara stammered, her wet eyes on the doctor’s face, her panting little figure lost in the big outline of her mother’s spare-room bed.  She managed a brave smile, but there was a bitter lump in her throat.

A girl!

And she had been so brave, so sweet with Jerry, who had not enjoyed the three or four days of waiting at her mother’s house; so strong in her agonies, as became the healthy, normal little country girl she was!  Fate owed her a son, she had done her share, she had not flinched.  And now—­a girl!  Fresh tears of disappointment came to take the place of tears of pain in her eyes.  She remembered that Jerry had said, a few days before, “It’ll be a boy, of course—­all the old women about seem to have settled that—­and I believe I’ll cable Cousin Harold.”

“Ma says it’ll be a boy,” Clara had submitted hopefully, longing to hear more of “Cousin Harold,” to whom Gerald alluded at long intervals.

“Of course it will—­good old girl!” Jerry had agreed.  And that was only Thursday night, and this was in the late dawn of cold, wintry Saturday morning.

Her mother bent over her and kissed her wet forehead.  Mrs. Mumford’s big kind face was radiant; she had already four small grandsons; this was the first grand-daughter.  More than that, the nurse was not here yet; she had been supreme through the ordeal; she had managed one more birth extremely well, and she rejoiced in the making of a nation.

“Such a nice baby, darling!” she whispered, “with her dear little head all covered with black hair!  Neta’s dressing her.”

“Where’s Gerald?” the young mother asked weakly.

“Right here!  I’ll let him in for a moment!” There was a satisfaction in Mrs. Mumford’s voice; everything was proceeding absolutely by schedule.  “And just as anxious to see you as you are to see him!” she added happily.  These occasions were always the same, and always far more enjoyable to this practised parent than any pageant, any opera, any social distinction could have been.  To comfortably, soothingly lead the trembling novice through the long experience, to whisk about the house capably and briskly busy with the familiar paraphernalia, to cry in sympathy with another’s tears, to stand white-lipped, impotent, anguished through a few dreadful moments, and then to laugh, and rejoice, and reassure, before the happy hours of resting, and feeding, and cuddling began—­this was the greatest satisfaction in her life.

Clara, afraid in this first moment to face his disappointment, felt in another the most delicious reassurance and comfort she had known in months.  Jerry, taking the chair by the bedside, was so dear about it!  The long night had much impressed the new-made father.  They had had coffee at about two o’clock—­Clara remembered wondering how they could sit enjoying it, instead of dashing the hideous cups to the floor, and rushing out of the horrible enclosure of walls and curtains—­and as he bent over her she knew he had had something stronger since—­but he was so dear!