But a leading authority, even upon a subject so recondite, is not deceived in that way.
"The child is five weeks old if it's an hour," scornfully affirmed the expert. "Besides,"—the eye of the expert transfixed her niece piercingly—"do you suppose—a woman of my experience—needs to be told—but why pursue the subject!"
For the moment Eliza felt so guilty that she was quite unable to pursue the subject. Yet there was no reason why she should allow herself to be overwhelmed, except that Aunt Annie had an almost sublime power of putting people in the wrong. The situation in sheer grandeur and magnitude was altogether too much for her. And the mind of Aunt Annie, capable of volcanic energy when dealing with the subject it had made its own, had already traveled an alarming distance before Eliza could impose any check upon it.
"A very fine child—a very fine child indeed—but!"
The portentous gravity of the words should have brought a chill to the soul of Eliza. But for some odd reason it caused her to laugh hysterically.
"It is not a laughing matter," said the face of Aunt Annie; her stern lips made no comment on the preposterous behavior of her niece.
"She's mine," gasped Eliza, when laughter had brought her to the verge of tears.
"Tell that to the Marines," said the face of Aunt Annie. In fact the face of Aunt Annie said more than that. It said, "Eliza, I should like to give you the soundest shaking you have ever had in your life."
