While we wrestled with our problems, baby Jean wrestled with a great
many that were all her own. The difference between her and the rest of
us was that she said nothing.
But as day after day she watched with shining eyes the life in the
street below, I fancy that the question of the Sphinx presented itself
to her in many forms. Why articles that she threw from the window
re-appeared in the nursery; why some people passed and did not come
back, while others came back so often; why the big dog ran when the
little dog chased him,—all these things were to her parts of an
encompassing mystery.
Her vague wonder grew into childish thought. I watched—with a guilty
feeling that I was neglecting the great things I had been set to do—her
quick development.
She found that putting her fingers in her ears kept out unpleasant
sound, and once when her mother reproved her she held them there,
triumphant and unhearing. She found that she could agitate the entire
family by hiding small possessions. And she did this often, looking
inscrutable and dignified through the search for the lost articles, then
always bringing them back when the fun was over. She never forgot.
The ways of life were hard for her tiny feet. She was quick-tempered,
easily angered, and easily hurt. But always, after running away in wrath
and tears, she would be back again in a minute with a solemn little face
uplifted to be kissed.
She was born in an age of denial, and her first spoken word was “no.”
With a sweet perversity she stoutly repudiated all her most ardent
wishes. Even while her arms were stretched out to reach the desire of
her heart, she always protested that she did not want it.
I think that I remember every one of her pretty attitudes, the turn of
her head, the curves of her lithe little body.
I remember her as she looked one morning, tiptoe in her bed. It was very
early; all the world was asleep. She had crawled up outside the curtain,
and stood against the window, with her two hands outspread upon the
pane, white as a little flower.
I remember her as she clung one day to the Lad as he was leaving the
house.
“You do like me a little, don’t you, Jean?” said the Lad.
“No, no, no,” said the child, clasping her arms tightly about his neck.
“Ah, this is the baby,” said a caller who was entering. “Isn’t she like
her aunt!”
The Lad’s eyes twinkled, and he answered the question, which had been
addressed to me.
“Very much indeed,” he said gravely.