The arrival of Edith's baby was only about a month off when I went up to carry her a little afghan I had crocheted. I found her unpacking some baby scales and the most elaborate weighing basket I ever saw. It was all beruffled and trimmed with artificial rosebuds around the edge. It was when I stood off and admired it that I remarked with a sigh, and in the most offhand way in the world, that I guessed Madge's baby would have to be weighed on the kitchen scales if at all. I meant it as a kind of tribute to Edith's basket. Besides I thought it a good idea to refer to Madge's expectations. It seemed more friendly to the family to take them into my confidence in such a matter.
You would have thought a bomb had gone off in the room.
"That creature going to have a baby!" Edith exclaimed.
"Yes," I said. "Just think of it! Oliver with a little son or daughter!"
Edith turned suddenly upon me.
"Oh, I see!" she flashed. "I see! A son indeed! So that's the story! I suppose the girl has her eyes on that three thousand, without doubt. Designing little minx!"
"Why, your baby comes first, Edith," I replied. "Of course if you shouldn't get the prize, I think Madge could make pretty good use of three thousand dollars. She probably needs it more than you."
"Oh! So you hope I won't have a boy! That's it. Very well. We'll see. You hope—"
"Why, Edith," I interrupted, "I don't hope anything of the sort. I—"
