"We can't tell, they're so little. One thing does comfort me, they show no disposition to tell lies; but that, I think, is because they have never been frightened. You see, everyone bowed down before them; and whatever Indian servants may be in other respects, they seem to me extraordinarily kind and patient with children."
"Jan, what are your views about the bringing up of children?... You've never said ... and I should like to know. You see, we're both"—here Meg sighed deeply and looked portentously grave—"in a position of awful responsibility."
They were sitting on each side of the hearth, with their toes on the fender. Meg had been
sewing at an overall for little Fay, but at that moment she laid it on her knee and ran her hands through her cropped hair, then about two inches long all over her head, so that it stood on end in broken spirals and feathery curls above her bright eyes. In the evening the uniform was discarded "by request."
Jan looked across at her and laughed.
So funny and so earnest; so small, and yet so great with purpose.
"I don't think I've any views. R. L. S. summed up the whole duty of children ages ago, and it's our business to see that they do it—that's all. Don't you remember:
A child should always say what's true,
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table:
At least as far as he is able.
It's no use to expect too much, is it?"
"If you expect to get the second injunction carried out in the case of your niece you're a most optimistic person. For three weeks now I've been perambulating Kensington Gardens with those children, and I have never in the whole course of my life entered into conversation with so many strangers, and it's always she who begins it. Then complications arise and I have to intervene. I don't mind policemen and park-keepers and roadmen, but I rather draw the line at idly benevolent old gentlemen who join our party and seem to spend the whole morning with us...."