Before they had been at Candleford a week a letter came from their father to say they had a new little sister, and Laura felt so relieved at this news that she wanted to stand on her head, like Benny. Although no hint had been dropped by her elders, she had known what was about to happen. Edmund had known, too, for several times when they had been alone together he had said anxiously, “I hope our mother’s all right.” Now she was all right and they could fully enjoy their holiday.

Ordinary mothers of that day would put themselves to any inconvenience and employ any subterfuge to prevent their children suspecting the advent of a new arrival. The hint of a stork’s probable visit or the addition of a clause to a child’s prayers asking God to send them a new little brother or sister were devices of a few advanced young parents in more educated circles; but even the most daring of these never thought of telling a child straightforwardly what to expect. Even girls of fifteen were supposed to be deaf and blind at such times and if they accidentally let drop a remark which showed they were aware of the situation they were thought disagreeably “knowing.” Laura’s schoolmistress during Bible reading one day became embarrassed over the Annunciation. She had mentioned the period of nine months; then, with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes, said hastily: “I think nine months is the time a mother has to pray to God to give her a baby before her prayer is answered.” Nobody smiled or spoke, but hard, cold eyes looked at her from the front row where her elder pupils sat, eyes which said as plainly as words, “You must think we’re a lot of softies.”

After the baby’s arrival, if the younger children of the family asked where it had come from, they were told from under a gooseberry bush, or that the midwife had brought it in her basket, or the doctor in his black bag. Laura’s mother was more sensible than most parents. When asked the question by her children when very small she replied: “Wait until you get older. You’re too young to understand, and I’m sure I’m not clever enough to tell you.” Which perhaps was better than confusing their young minds with textbook talk about pollen and hazel catkins and bird’s eggs, and certainly better than a conversation between a mother and child on the subject which figured in a recent novel. It ran something like this:

“Mother, where did Auntie Ruth get her baby?”

“Uncle Ralph and she made it.”

“Will they make some more?”

“I don’t think so. Not for some time at any rate. You see, it is a very messy business and frightfully expensive.”