"What a dear little girl for my baby to play with!" she added, and kissed Edith on both cheeks. "It is me," she said, with a swift, shining smile, and one of her tears rolled into a dimple and stopped there. The girl in mourning lifted her eyes, dark and swimming, from the handkerchief. "But where is the baby's mother?" said Edith, glad to gain time before kissing the wet, unknown face. "Oh, Edith dear," said her mother, "that's right! Come here. She was crying bitterly into a small black-edged handkerchief. Sitting near her mother on the sofa was a girl dressed in black, with black hair, like the baby's. She heard voices in her mother's room, and looked in. "Yes," said the nurse "and when you go out, will you please shut the door behind you?" "Has the baby's mother come too?" she asked. Did it refer to the weather? or was it, perhaps, a slangy servant's way of saying, "Leave me alone" or "Hold your tongue"? Then she said, "Wind," and went on patting.Įdith wondered what that meant. The woman looked the little girl up and down before she answered. The square-faced nurse did not answer, but continued pat-pat-pat with her large hand on the small round back.Įdith stepped a little nearer. "I thought babies had yellow hair, with long muslin dresses and blue bows," faltered Edith. "Please shut the door, miss," said the nurse. Edith saw the soles of two little red feet, and at the other end a small, oblong head, covered with soft black hair. The nurse was slapping it on the back with quick, regular pats. Near the window, gazing out across the verdant Hertfordshire fields, sat a large, square-faced woman in pink print, and on her lap, face downward, wrapped in flannel, lay a baby. Slowly she opened the door, then paused on the threshold, startled and disappointed. It was her own room, but through the closed door she had heard a weak, shrill cry that plucked at her heart. "Where are they? Where is the baby?" and, without waiting for an answer, the child ran out of the room and helter-skeltered upstairs. "Have they come?" she asked of Florence, who was laying the cloth for tea. Soon, on the wave of a light-swinging breath, it drooped into sleep again.Įdith Avory had hurried home across the meadow from the children's party at the vicarage, her pendant plaits flying, her straw hat aslant, and now she entered the dining-room of the Grey House fluttered and breathless. Then its cheek was laid on a cool young breast, and all was tepid tenderness and mild delight. There were hurrying footsteps light arms raised it, and a laughing voice soothed it with senseless, sweet-sounding words. Nothing moved in the silent, shadowy room, and the baby repeated its brief inarticulate cry. The baby opened its eyes and said: "I am hungry." They said: "What a dear little child! We wish it were a genius." … BOOK I I-I There was a man and a woman, and they had a child. And it became a tiger, and tore her to pieces. She said: "What a dear little kitten! I wish it were a tiger." God said to her: "If you give your life's blood to it to drink, it will become a tiger." So the woman gave her life's blood to it to drink. And it became an eagle, and plucked his eyes out. He said, "What a dear little canary! I wish it were an eagle." God said to him: "If you give your heart to it to feed on, it will become an eagle." So the man gave his heart to it to feed on.
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