Agnes’s pear was not touched; there the child sat, without word or sob, but all gathered into herself, like a sea anemone whose tentacles have been touched. The stillness, whiteness, and brooding sullenness of the face, the limp figure and desolate attitude, would have made me take the little being to my heart if I had not too often failed to reach her in this way. This went on all day, all of us suffering; and in the evening, when I went to hear the children’s prayers before bed, I meant to have it out.
We were both frozen up with sadness, and the weary little one was ready to creep into her mother’s heart again. But I must not let her yet.
“So my poor Agnes has had a very sad day?”
“Yes, mother,” with a little quivering sob.
“And do you know we have all had a very sad day,—father, mother, your little brother, nurse—every one of us has felt as if a black curtain had been hung up to shut out the sunshine?”
The child was sympathetic, and shivered at the sight of the black curtain and the warm sunshine shut out.
“And do you know who has put us all out in the dark and the cold? Our little girl drew the curtain, because she would not speak to any of us, or be kind to any of us, or love any of us all the day long; so we could not get into the sunshine, and have been shivering and sad in the cold.”
“Mother, mother!” with gasping sobs; “not you and father?”
“Ah! I thought my little girl would be sorry. Now let us try to find out how it all happened. Is it possible that Agnes noticed that her brother’s pear was larger than her own?”
“Oh, mother, how could I?” And the poor little face was hidden in her mother’s breast, and the outbreak of sobs that followed was too painful. I feared it might mean actual illness for the sensitive little soul. I think it was the right thing to do; but I had barely courage enough to leave the results in more loving hands.