"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!