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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
77
"Keep
it
out
in
the
sun
as
much
as
you
can,"
I
said;
"this
is
the
very
weather
to
turn
weak
babies
into
strong
ones."
"Oh,
I
am
so
afraid
it
will
catch
cold
if
I
take
it
out,"
she
cried,
her
face
buried
in
what
was
once
a
pocket-handkerchief.
"When
was
it
out
last?"
"Oh--"
she
stopped
to
blow
her
nose,
very
violently,
and,
as
it
seemed
to
me,
with
superfluous
thoroughness.
I
waited
till
she
had
done,
and
then
repeated
my
question.
"Oh--"
a
fresh
burst
of
tears,
and
renewed
exhaustive
nose-blowing.
I
began
to
suspect
that
my
question,
put
casually,
was
of
more
importance
than
I
had
thought,
and
repeated
it
once
more.
"I--can't
t-take
it
out,"
she
sobbed,
"I
know
it--it
would
die."
"But
has
it
not
been
out
at
all,
then?"
She
shook
her
head.
"Not
once
since
it
was
born?
Six
months
ago?"
She
shook
her
head.
"Poor
baby!"
I
exclaimed;
and
indeed
from
my
heart
I
pitied
the
little
thing,
perishing
in
a
heap
of
feathers,
in
one
close
room,
with
four
people
absorbing
what
air
there
was.
"I
am
afraid,"
I
said,
"that
if
it
does
not
soon
get
some
fresh
air
it
will
not
live.
I
wonder
what
would
happen
to
my
children
if
I
kept
them
in
one
hot
room
day
and
night
for
six
months.
You
see
how
they
are
out
all
day,
and
how
well
they
are."
"They
are
so
strong,"
she
said,
with
a
doleful
sniff,
"that
they
can
stand
it."
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