Page 267 - The Story of My Lif

The little house is a genuine bit of paradise. It consists of one large square room
with a great fireplace, a spacious bay-window, and a small room where our
servant, a little negro boy, sleeps.

There is a piazza in front, covered with vines that grow so luxuriantly that you
have to part them to see the garden beyond.

Our meals are brought from the house, and we usually eat on the piazza. The
little negro boy takes care of the fire when we need one, so I can give my whole
attention to Helen.

She was greatly excited at first, and kicked and screamed herself into a sort of
stupor, but when supper was brought she ate heartily and seemed brighter,
although she refused to let me touch her. She devoted herself to her dolls the first
evening, and when it was bedtime she undressed very quietly, but when she felt
me get into bed with her, she jumped out on the other side, and nothing that I
could do would induce her to get in again. But I was afraid she would take cold,

and I insisted that she must go to bed. We had a terrific tussle, I can tell you. The
struggle lasted for nearly two hours. I never saw such strength and endurance in
a child. But fortunately for us both, I am a little stronger, and quite as obstinate
when I set out. I finally succeeded in getting her on the bed and covered her up,
and she lay curled up as near the edge of the bed as possible.

The next morning she was very docile, but evidently homesick. She kept going
to the door, as if she expected some one, and every now and then she would
touch her cheek, which is her sign for her mother, and shake her head sadly. She
played with her dolls more than usual, and would have nothing to do with me. It
is amusing and pathetic to see Helen with her dolls. I don’t think she has any
special tenderness for them—I have never seen her caress them; but she dresses
and undresses them many times during the day and handles them exactly as she
has seen her mother and the nurse handle her baby sister.