"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.
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