Flossy does not like children, and poor little Rachel never has had a life of roses. Flossy says children are such a care and require so much attention.
“Rachel was all that I could attend to, and here all winter I have had another one on my hands to keep me at home, and make me lose sleep, and grow old before my time. I don’t see why such burdens have to be put upon people. Children are too thick in this world any way.”
She fretted on in this strain for some time, until Bronson looked up and said,
“Don’t, Flossy. You don’t mean what you say. Do tell her the little thing is welcome.”
“I do mean what I say,” answered Flossy.
Then, as Bronson left the room abruptly, Flossy said,
“And I was determined to name her after you. Bronson didn’t want me to. He said you wouldn’t thank me for it, but I told him that Rachel Percival was quite delighted with her namesake.”
I hid my indignantly smarting eyes in the folds of the baby’s dress, as I held her up before my face, and made her laugh at the flowers in my hat. Flossy thought I was not listening to her with sufficient interest; so she got up and crossed the room with that little stumble of hers, which used to be so taking with the men when she was a girl, and took Ruth away from me.
There was a great contrast between the two children. Rachel Herrick is a shy child, with a delicate, refined face, lighted by wonderful gray eyes like Bronson’s. I do not understand her. She seems afraid of me, and I confess I am equally afraid of her. Even Rachel Percival does not get on with her very well, although she has bravely tried. The child spends most of her time in the library, devouring all the books she can lay her hands on. Little Ruth is a round, soft, fluffy baby, all dimples and smiles and good-nature, willing to roll or crawl into anybody’s lap or affections. A very good baby to exhibit, for strangers delight in her, and pet her just as people always have petted Flossy. Rachel stands mutely watching all such demonstrations, her pale face rigid with some emotion, and her eyes brilliant and hard. She is not a child one would dare take liberties with. No one ever pets her. Flossy complains continually of her to visitors and to Bronson, so that Bronson has gotten into the way of reproving her mechanically whenever his eye rests upon her. Her very presence, always silent, always inwardly critical, seems to irritate her parents. She was not doing a thing, but sitting sedately, with a heavy book on her lap, watching the baby, with that curious expression on her face; but Flossy couldn’t let her alone.
“Baby loves her mother, doesn’t she? She is not like naughty sister Rachel, who won’t do anything but read, and never loves anybody but herself. Sister says bad things to poor sick mamma, and mamma can’t love her, can she? But mamma loves her pretty, sweet baby, so she does.”