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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
33
"Do
you
love
Moses,
mummy?"
asked
the
May
baby,
jumping
into
my
lap,
and
taking
my
face
in
both
her
hands--one
of
the
many
pretty,
caressing
little
ways
of
a
very
pretty,
caressing
little
creature.
"Yes,"
I
replied
bravely,
"I
love
him."
"Then
I
too!"
they
cried
with
simultaneous
gladness,
the
seal
having
thus
been
affixed
to
the
legitimacy
of
their
regard
for
him.
To
be
of
such
authority
that
your
verdict
on
every
subject
under
heaven
is
absolute
and
final
is
without
doubt
to
be
in
a
proud
position,
but,
like
all
proud
positions,
it
bristles
with
pitfalls
and
drawbacks
to
the
weak-kneed;
and
most
of
my
conversations
with
the
babies
end
in
a
sudden
change
of
subject
made
necessary
by
the
tendency
of
their
remarks
and
the
unanswerableness
of
their
arguments.
Happily,
yesterday
the
Moses
talk
was
brought
to
an
end
by
the
April
baby
herself,
who
suddenly
remembered
that
I
had
not
yet
seen
and
sympathised
with
her
dearest
possession,
a
Dutch
doll
called
Mary
Jane,
since
a
lamentable
accident
had
bereft
it
of
both
its
legs;
and
she
had
dived
into
the
schoolroom
and
fished
it
out
of
the
dark
corner
reserved
for
the
mangled
and
thrust
it
in
my
face
before
I
had
well
done
musing
on
the
nature
and
extent
of
my
love
for
Moses--for
I
try
to
be
conscientious--and
bracing
myself
to
meet
the
next
question.
"See
this
poor
Mary
Jane,"
she
said,
her
voice
and
hand
quivering
with
tenderness
as
she
lifted
its
petticoats
to
show
me
the
full
extent
of
the
calamity,
"see,
mummy,
no
legs--only
twowsers
and
nothing
further."
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