pectedly, several days later in town, that I woke up to the fact that that little girl of Madge's was a blessing in disguise. Edith's daughter was then about three months old and she was flitting about again as gay as ever, feathered and furred, stepping like a horse who has just had a good rub-down. I had seen her several times in the last month. She does all her shopping in Boston and I am often there myself. Of course we had spoken, even chatted on impersonal subjects as we chanced to meet here and there. On this particular day we happened to find ourselves in the drapery department of a large department store both waiting for the elevator to take us to the street.
"Oh, how do you do?" she said to me loftily. "Gorgeous day, isn't it?"
"Fine," I replied.
And then she asked evasively, her curiosity getting the better of her. "How's everything at your establishment?"
"Oh, all right. I have a note already written to you. There's a new member in our family, you know."
I saw the colour rush to Edith's face.
"No!" she exclaimed. "Really?" Then arming herself against a dreaded blow she gasped, "Which is it?"
"A girl," I hated to announce; "born Thursday."
"A girl! Did you say a girl?" Edith's voice broke into a nervous laugh. "Lucy Vars, has Oliver's wife a little girl? Is she dreadfully disappointed? How is she? When was it? How much does it weigh? A girl! Well, well, is it possible?" Her eyes were fairly glowing now.
