another boy--we have only three, you know. Isn't he a darling?"

Number eleven, fast asleep, was fished from his downy bed and laid in
his aunt's arms, eagerly extended for him. His clothes might have been
woven by fairies, and he smelt like a violet bed in spring.

Strange thrills--sharper than those that Nannie had set going--shook
Deb's big heart as she cuddled and kissed him.

"The older I get," she confessed, "the greater fool I am about a baby.
And you do have such nice babies, Rose."

"Yes," simpered Rose. "They ARE nicer than most, certainly--I'm sure I
don't know why." Her eyes gloated on the white bundle; she fidgeted to
get it back. "Ah, Debbie, I wish--I wish you knew--"

"I know you do, my dear," laughed Deb, a little queerly, and she
returned the baby in order to hunt for her handkerchief. "And if you
must know the truth, so do I. It's tantalising to see you with more
than your share, while I have none--and never shall have, worse luck!
Well"--blowing her nose cheerfully--"it's no use crying over spilt
milk, is it? And I tipped the can over myself, so I can't complain.
How's Peter?"

Rose told her how Peter was--"so dear, so good"--and then had so much
to say about the children, one by one, through all the eleven of them,
that it was quite in a hurry at last that Deb disclosed her secret. And
Rose not only sustained no shock--which would have been bad for her--
but could see nothing in the marriage worth fussing about, except the
fact that it came too late for a family. Such a sordidly domestic