It was mysterious.
Then one day the wife (she heard) fell ill, and through her great concern about that—for she was profoundly interested in these people and used to feel awfully sorry for them, hidden away like that perhaps with no fire and nothing to eat but mutton—the mystery was explained.
With the family she was going towards church one Sunday morning and she heard her father tell a lady that “my wife” was not very well that morning and couldn’t come. Rosalie during the service prayed very earnestly for the wife’s recovery and took the opportunity of praying also that she might be permitted to see the wife “if she is not very frightening, O Lord, and the husband too, if possible, for Jesus Christ’s sake, amen.”
And at lunch, having thought of nothing else all the morning, there was suddenly shot out of her the question, “Father, is your wife any better now?”
Rosalie commonly never spoke at all at meals; and as to speaking to her father, though it is obvious she must have had some sort of intercourse with him, this famous question (a standing joke in the house for years) was the single direct speech of those early years she ever could remember. She spoke to her father when she was bidden to speak in the form of messages, generally about meals being ready, or relative to shopping commissions he had been asked to execute; but he was far too wonderful, powerful and mysterious for conversation with him on her own initiative. “Father, is your wife any better now?” stood out in her later recollection, alone and lonelily startling.
There was from all the company an astounded stare and astounded gasp; all the table sitting with astounded eyes, forks suspended in mid-air, mouths half open in astonishment, and Rosalie sitting in her high chair wonderingly regarding their wonderment. What were they staring at?
There was then an enormous howl of laughter, led by Rosalie’s father, and repeated, and louder than before, because it was so very unusual for the family to be laughing in accord with father. Gertrude, the maid, fled hysterically from the room and laughter howled back from the kitchen.
Rosalie’s father said, “You’d better go and ask your mother.” Her mother had stayed in bed that day with a chill.
Robert “undid” Rosalie—a wooden rod with a fixed knob at one end went through the arms of her high chair and was fastened by a removable knob at the other end—and Rosalie slid down very gravely, and with their laughter still echoing trod upstairs to her mother’s bedside and related what she had been told to ask, and, on inquiry, why she had asked it. “I only said ‘Father, is your wife any better now?’” and on further inquiry explained her long searching after the undiscoverable pair.
Rosalie’s mother laughed also then, but had a sudden wetness in her eyes. She put her arms about Rosalie and pressed her to her bosom and cried, “Oh, my poor darling!” and explained the tremendous mystery. Wife and husband, Rosalie’s mother explained, were the names used by other people for her father and her mother. A man and a woman loved one another very, very dearly (“as I loved your dear father”) and then they lived together in a dear house of their own and then God gave them dear little children of their own to live with them, said Rosalie’s mother.