In the fulness of time, the Brenton baby came, a sturdy little
youngster who, from the start, kicked lustily and lifted up his voice
out of a pair of brazen lungs that made the domestic welkin ring.
Kathryn, somewhat weak and very languid, opened her eyes listlessly,
when the nurse approached the bed, the new-born heir, swaddled and
shrieking, in her capable arms.
"Here's the baby, Mrs. Brenton!" she announced, and there was as much
triumph in her tone as if it were the first child of her forty years'
experience in nursing, not the last.
"Thank you, nurse. I'm sure she's very nice. And will you please tell
Mr. Brenton," for Scott still was rigidly barred out from the room;
"that I think we'll name her Katharine--"
"But, ma'am--"
Imperious in spite of her weakness, Kathryn ignored the attempted
interruption.
"--Katharine, for me and for my grandmother."
"But, Mrs. Brenton, it's a boy."
Kathryn gave a start of indignation.
"Nurse, how stupid! Of course, it is a little girl."