“All grown-up people seem to know everything,” she summarized. There are times when I doubt if children are as simple as they look. If it be sheer stupidity that prompts them to make remarks of this character, one should pity them, and seek to improve them. But if it be not stupidity? well then, one should still seek to improve them, but by a different method. The other morning I overheard the nurse talking to this particular specimen. The woman is a most worthy creature, and she was imparting to the child some really sound advice. She was in the middle of an unexceptional exhortation concerning the virtue of silence, when Dorothea interrupted her with— “Oh, do be quiet, Nurse. I never get a moment’s peace from your chatter.” Such an interruption discourages a woman who is trying to do her duty. Last Tuesday evening she was unhappy. Myself, I think that rhubarb should never be eaten before April, and then never with lemonade. Her mother read her a homily upon the subject of pain. It was impressed upon her that we must be patient, that we must put up with the trouble that God sends us. Dorothea would descend to details, as children will. “Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends us?” “Yes, decidedly.” “And with the nurses that God sends us?” “Certainly; and be thankful that you’ve got them, some little girls haven’t any nurse. And don’t talk so much.” On Friday I found the mother in tears. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Oh, nothing,” was the answer; “only Baby. She’s such a strange child. I can’t make her out at all.” “What has she been up to now?” “Oh, she will argue, you know.” She has that failing. I don’t know where she gets it from, but she’s got it. “Well?” “Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her she shouldn’t take her doll’s perambulator out with her.” “Yes?” “Well, she didn’t say anything then, but so soon as I was outside the door, I heard her talking to herself—you know her way?” “Yes?” “She said—” “Yes, she said?” “She said, ‘I must be patient. I must put up with the mother God has sent me.’” She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us once a week to give her the opportunity of studying manners and behaviour. Milson had dropped in, and we were discussing politics. I was interested, and, pushing my plate aside, leant forward with my elbows on the table. Dorothea has a habit of talking to herself in a high-pitched whisper capable of being heard above an Adelphi love scene. I heard her say— “I must sit up straight. I mustn’t sprawl with my elbows on the table. It is only common, vulgar people behave that way.” I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and appeared to be contemplating something a thousand miles away. We had all of us been lounging! We sat up stiffly, and conversation flagged. Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone. But somehow it didn’t seem to be _our_ joke.