The morning’s post brought a letter from nurse to ask for further leave of absence; and this, in itself, would have depressed the spirits of the nursery children, for they were looking forward to a gay supper with her, and a long talk about her daughter Ann, and all her London adventures.
But this was not the real trouble which pressed so heavily on Rosie’s motherly heart; the real anxiety which made her little face look so careworn was caused by the new baby, the little boy of two years old, who had arrived late the night before, and now sat with a shadow on his face, absolutely refusing to make friends with any one.
He must have been a petted little boy at home, for he was beautifully dressed, and his curly hair was nicely cared for, and his fair face had a delicate peach bloom about it; but if he was petted, he was also, perhaps, spoilt, for he certainly would not make advances to any of his new comrades, nor exert himself to be agreeable, nor to overcome the strangeness which was filling his baby mind. Had nurse been at home, she would have known how to manage; she would have coaxed smiles from little Fred, and taken him up in her arms, and “mothered” him a good bit. Babies of two require a great lot of “mothering,” and it is surprising what desolation fills their little souls when it is denied them.
Fred cried while Patience was dressing him; he got almost into a passion when she washed his face, and he sulked over his breakfast. Patience was not at all the sort of girl to manage a child like Fred; she was rough in every sense of the word; and when rough petting failed, she tried the effect of rough scolding.
“Come, baby, come, you must eat your bread and milk. No nonsense now, open your mouth and gobble it down. Come, come, I’ll slap you if you don’t.”
But baby Fred, though sorrowful, was not a coward; he pushed the bowl of bread and milk away, upset its contents over the clean tablecloth, and raised two sorrowful big eyes to the new nurse’s face.
“Naughty dirl, do away,” he said; “Fred don’t ’ove ’oo. Fred won’t eat bekfus’.”
“Oh, Miss Rosie, what a handful he is!” said Patience.