hat reclining
chair, Ellis, from my room; these great seats are rather stiff,"
said the Princess, and Delia, protesting, was made comfortable in a
large curved lounging basket, with the General, contentedly putting
his clothespin through its paces, in her arm.

"How old is it?" the Princess inquired, after an interval of
silence, during which Miss Honey and Caroline regarded her with a
placid interest, and Delia stroked the General's hair, from which
she had taken the absurd lace cap.

"He's eight months, Madam, last week--eight months and ten days,
really."

"That's not very old, now, is it?" pursued the lady. "I suppose they
don't know very much, do they, so young?"

"Indeed he does, though," Delia protested, "You'll be surprised.
Just watch him, now. Look at Delia, darlin'; where's Delia?"

The General withdrew his lingering gaze from the clothespin, and
turned his blue eyes wonderingly up to her. The corner of his mouth
trembled, widened, his eyelids crinkled, and then he smiled
delightfully, straight into the eyes of the nurse, stretched up a
wavering pink hand, and patted her cheek. A soft, gurgling
monosyllable, difficult of classification but easy to interpret,
escaped him.

The Princess smiled appreciatively, and moved with a stately, long
step toward them.

"That was very pretty," she said, but Delia did not hear her.

"My baby, my own baby!" she murmured with a shiver, and hiding her
face in the General's neck she sobbed aloud.

Miss Honey, shocked and embarrassed, twisted her feet nervously and
looked at the inlaid floor. Caroline shared these feelings, but
though she turned red, she spoke sturdily.

"I guess Delia feels bad," she suggested shyly, "when she thinks
about--about what happened, you know. She don't cry usu'lly."

The Princess smiled again, this time directly at Caroline, who
fairly blinked in the radiance. With her long brown eyes still
holding Caroline's round ones, she patted Delia's shoulder kindly,
and both the children saw her chin tremble.

The General, smothered in that sudden hug, whimpered a little and
kicked out wildly with his fat white-stockinged legs. Seen from the
rear he had the appearance of a neat, if excited, package,
unaccountably frilled about with embroidered flannel. Delia
straightened herself, dabbed apologetically at her eyes, and
coughed.

"It's bottle-time," she announced in horror-stricken tones,
consulting a large nickel watch hanging from her belt,