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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
114
There
was
no
answer.
I
snipped
off
sweet-pea
pods
and
began
to
talk
French
at
a
great
rate,
asking
questions
as
I
snipped,
and
trying
to
extract
answers,
and
getting
none.
The
silence
behind
me
grew
ominous.
Presently
I
heard
a
faint
sniff,
and
the
basket
being
held
up
to
me
began
to
shake.
I
bent
down
quickly
and
looked
under
April's
sun-bonnet.
She
was
crying
great
dreadful
tears,
and
rubbing
her
eyes
hard
with
her
one
free
hand.
"Why,
you
most
blessed
of
babies,"
I
exclaimed,
kneeling
down
and
putting
my
arms
round
her,
"what
in
the
world
is
the
matter?"
She
looked
at
me
with
grieved
and
doubting
eyes.
"Such
a
mother
to
talk
French
to
her
child!"
she
sobbed.
I
threw
down
the
scissors,
picked
her
up,
and
carried
her
up
and
down
the
path,
comforting
her
with
all
the
soft
words
I
knew
and
suppressing
my
desire
to
smile.
"That's
not
French,
is
it?"
I
whispered
at
the
end
of
a
long
string
of
endearments,
beginning,
I
believe,
with
such
flights
of
rhetoric
as
priceless
blessing
and
angel
baby,
and
ending
with
a
great
many
kisses.
"No,
no,"
she
answered,
patting
my
face
and
looking
infinitely
relieved,
"that
is
pretty,
and
how
mummies
always
talks.
Proper
mummies
never
speak
French--only
Seraphines."
And
she
gave
me
a
very
tight
hug,
and
a
kiss
that
transferred
all
her
tears
to
my
face;
and
I
set
her
down
and,
taking
out
my
handkerchief,
tried
to
wipe
off
the
traces
of
my
attempt
at
governessing
from
her
cheeks.
I
wonder
how
it
is
that
whenever
babies
cry,
streaks
of
mud
immediately
appear
on
their
faces.
I
believe
I
could
cry
for
a
week,
and
yet
produce
no
mud.
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