“That we can’t tell, either,” said the all-knowing grandmother. “You see, she is almost bald now except for this tiny fringe that is rapidly being worn off in the back. That does seem a little pinkish.”

“Pinkish! Oh, Mother-in-law, what a word to express my Molly’s hair!”[31]

[31]

“Can’t you see she is getting even with you for making Mildred almost cry?” laughed Molly. “I know she is going to have my hair because when you slip a little bit of blue under that little lock that is on the side, where it hasn’t rubbed off, the ‘pink’ comes out quite plainly. My Mildred will be a belle. I have always heard it said that a girl with brown eyes and golden hair is born to be a belle. Oh, yes, I will call the baby’s hair golden although I have always called my own red.”

“I don’t know whether I want her to be a belle or not,” objected Edwin. “She might be frivolous.”

“Frivolous with your eyes! Heavens, Daddy, she couldn’t be!”

Mrs. Brown contentedly smiled and rocked the baby, who crowed and cooed and kicked her pretty pink tootsies. The sun shone on the orchard home and a particularly obliging mocking bird burst into song from one of the gnarled old apple trees, heavy with its luscious fruit. Mocking birds are supposed not to sing in August, but[32] sometimes they do, and when they do, their song is as wonderful and welcome as an unlooked-for legacy.

[32]

Molly looked over the fields of waving blue grass to the dark beech woods that bordered the pasture, a feeling of great happiness and contentment in her heart. How peaceful and sweet was life! She leaned against her husband, who put an ever-ready arm around her, and together they gazed on the fruitful landscape. Mrs. Brown crooned to the baby a song ever dear to her own children and one that had been sung to her by her own negro mammy.

“Mammy went away—she tol’ me ter stay,

An’ tek good keer er de baby,

She tol’ me ter stay an’ sing dis away:

Oh, go ter sleepy, little baby!

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