Whether she went driving in royal state under her white carriage robes,
or watched from the nursery window the people passing below, or stood in
her little night-dress on her brass bed before being tucked in, Jean was
always adorable.
One day I took the Lad to see her.
He had already called at the house a number of times, but Jean had never
been brought down to the parlour.
Perhaps he had never before been acquainted with a little child. I saw
him watch every motion of her yellow head as she sat on the floor,
looking solemnly at the people about her. Jean was a grave baby.
Presently she lifted her hand and very earnestly pointed one tiny finger
at the Lad.
I had seen her do this many times. It was her usual way of expressing
approval of a new acquaintance. But the Lad had never seen it, and to
him it meant, “Thou art the man.”
He begged to be allowed to take her up. As he lifted her, his face
flushed.
I did not tell him that she clung to him so closely, and refused so
peremptorily to go to any one else, partly because his arms were so
strong. Jean liked the grasp of firm muscles. To the Lad it seemed that
her obstinacy was only love for him.
He would not go home. Sitting before the open fire, he gazed at the
child on his knee, and ignored all my glances.
Jean looked at him steadily for a long time, her hazel eyes meeting his
of darker brown. Then she played with his watch-chain. Presently she was
induced to display all her accomplishments. She pointed to her feet when
they were named, to her eyes, her hair, and even, ‘by request,’ to her
tongue.
Sitting there and watching them in the shadows of the firelight, I could
not help thinking how much alike they were.
Jean played until she was sleepy; then she yawned, and the Lad laughed
to see the tears come into her eyes.
By and by her head nodded; she was almost asleep. Not content with her
position, she crawled up, as she did with her father, and put her head
down in the Lad’s neck, then went to sleep with one helpless hand
hanging over his shoulder, the other softly patting him.
The Lad started when she put down her head; then he held her close.
It was partly the way in which his arm curled round her, and partly the
light from her fuzzy hair that made them look like the Murillo picture
of Saint Anthony and the Christ-child.
When I went over to take Jean away, the Lad looked up, and I saw that
his eyes were moist with tears.
They were faithful lovers after that. Jean used to watch for him from
the windows upstairs, and sometimes when she saw him coming she would
smile.
He called often, always asking for her. (This was partly because he did
not dare ask each time for Janet.) And the child was carried downstairs
with her arms stretched out impatiently to meet him.
One night he arrived when she was asleep, but her mother sent for her.
The nurse came in softly, cradling the child in her arms. Her yellow
hair was wet and curly about her face; below her white night-dress hung
one baby foot.
The Lad bent down and kissed it.