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Show Page 148 clean and snugly wrapped, the litter of the birth disposed of, we let a white-faced Cisly enter the house. He stood next his wife and children, a puzzlepated look upon his face. At last he began to beam and reached out a hand to touch the wee ones. "And what are you going to name them?" Margaret asked, as the baby girl's tiny hand curled round Cisly's rough finger. "If Cisly agrees, we shall name the boy Francis, after his father," said Anne. "The girl we shall name after my mother and also after a dear friend. We shall name her Sarah." All the way home I could not banish the smile from my face or the joy from my heart. My feet were still skipping as I began the morning meal, for Margaret had stayed behind to watch over Anne for a while longer. Twig came stumbling down the ladder, holding on with his good hand, then palming his eyes when he reached the bottom. Though his arm had healed well, there was some scarring and stiffness, and he tended to favor it at times. "Anne has had a girl," I told him, scurrying about with kettles, trenchers and spoons. "And a boy." Twig stood silent and I looked up to see his small body stiff, his face the color of the lard we had rendered from the swine. "Are they-are they-hale?" he asked, in a voice like a small bird. |
