“Baby dear,” she said again, “don’t you think you could say just some little words if you tried? Nurse would be so pleased when she comes out if she could hear you saying, ‘Dear little sister Mary’ to me!”
She was leaning over baby, and gave her a little kiss. Baby looked up and opened her mouth very wide. Mary could see her little pink tongue, but that was all there was to be seen; and just at that moment there started into Mary’s head what must be the reason that baby could not speak.
“She hasn’t got no teeth!” cried Mary. “She’s opening her mouth wide to show me! Oh, poor little darling baby! Has they been forgotten? The baby at the Lavender Cottages has got teeth!”
Baby did not seem to mind; she lay there smiling quite happily, as if she was pleased that Mary understood her, but Mary felt very unhappy indeed. Something came back into her mind that she had heard about baby’s teeth, but it was a long time ago, and she could not remember it clearly. Was it something about them having been forgotten?
“I’m afraid there’s been a mistook,” said Mary to herself. “Oh, poor baby! A’posing she never can speak! Oh, nurse, nurse, do come; I want to tell you something about poor baby!”
But nurse was still in the house and could not hear Mary calling, and Mary dared not go to fetch her because baby must not be left alone. So she did what most little girls, and little boys too sometimes, do when they’re in trouble,—she began to cry.
“Oh, nurse, nurse!” she wailed through her tears, “do come—oh, do come?”
And though baby could not speak she certainly could hear. She half-rolled herself round at the sound of her sister’s sad sobs and cries, and for a moment or two her own little face puckered up as if she were going to cry too—it is wonderful how soon a tiny baby learns to know if the people about it are in trouble—but then she seemed to change her mind, for she was a very sensible baby. And instead of crying she gave a sort of little gurgling coo that was very sweet, for it said quite plainly that she knew Mary was grieving, and she wanted to be told what it was all about. At first Mary did not hear her, she was so taken up with her own crying. That is the worst of crying; it makes one quite unnoticing of everything else.
Then baby rolled herself still nearer; if only she had understood about catching hold of things, no doubt she would have given Mary a little tug. But she had not learnt that yet. So all she could do was to go on with her cooing till at last Mary heard it. Then the big sister turned round, her poor face all red and wet with her tears; and when she saw baby staring up at her with her sweet, big, baby eyes, and cooing away in her dear little voice, which sounded rather sad, she stooped down and gave her such a hug that, if Dolly had not been really very good-natured, I am afraid her cooing would have been changed into crying.
“Oh, baby, you sweet—you dear little innicent sweet!” said Mary; “you’re too little to understand what I’m crying for. I’m crying ’cos the angels or the fairies has forgotten about your teeth, and I’m afraid you’ll never be able to speak—not all your life, poor baby!”