places. There were bootees from Mrs. Cudahy and bootees from Miss Eiden who had sung "The Sunshine of Your Smile" on that far-distant Christmas Eve. There was a billowing, luxuriant carriage cover of blue silk from Maude McLaughlin. There were a dozen tiny, efficient-looking shirties from Edna. The rest of the wicker was full to overflowing with Dot's contributions to her son's wardrobe. There was a rattle hidden away down in the bottom under his nightgowns. Dot knew that it had been a silly purchase, but it had been such a cunning rattle. And after all it wasn't half so silly as the duck who was made of Turkish toweling and squeaked.
A deposit had been paid on the crib. The balance would be due upon delivery. It was ivory-white as Dot had always imagined it, and Pat Macy's friend had wanted to give them a carriage at wholesale price, too. Dot hadn't been able to manage the carriage. She would have to get that on the installment plan. Much as Eddie loathed the great American habit, it would have to be acquired for the sake of the baby carriage. Dot wanted a gray wicker carriage.
There was nothing to do now but wait, and waiting was hard. Not only was she impatient and nervous, but her body had become a strange, unfamiliar mass of discomfort. The baby moved restlessly with almost continuous kicking and rocking about. Sitting could be merely tolerated; walking was a labor. One could not lie on one's bed continually and dream of brisk autumn days when one would light-footedly tread the Drive, pushing one's sleeping baby in his carriage.
"Eddie?" asked Dot, "what was your father's first name?"
Eddie looked up from his evening paper. "Why?" he asked.
"The kid's gotta have a name," Dot pointed out.
