“Do they understand? Most surely do they, Mrs. Evan; they know their names, and come crawling up quick when they see me fixing their bread and milk, bless their hearts!”
Yet I could not be deceived; Martha’s tones were those of duty oft rehearsed rather than affection. I’ve seen her, days gone by, cuddle and kiss my babies until the rose in her Sunday cap threatened to drop its petals with trembling; but if she ever kissed the twins, it must have been always in private.
Conversation languished these days, and while I was endeavouring to manufacture some, both twins began to scream, while Albert, letting go the fence, rolled into the grass, purple in the face and evidently choking.
Hurrying over, I seized Victoria, while Martha picked up the choking brother, running her finger inside his mouth to dislodge whatever he had tried to swallow.
Victoria was clutching part of a Frankfort sausage which she licked eagerly between her sobs, and, as far as we could learn from the enemy across the fence, who had contributed the dainty, Albert had snatched a piece of it, and by sucking, biting, and bolting, made way with it at the risk of strangling. Surely _he_ would be sick, and I coaxed father to go up after supper in case he was needed. On his return he reported that the boy was sleeping normally, curled up _under his bed_, Martha confessing that it was well-nigh impossible to keep either child _in_ a bed unless pinned down by blankets, which are rather unseasonable.
It certainly would be interesting from a psychological standpoint to know the origin of these waifs, and how and where they have slept, that they should show preferences so decidedly.
_The 22d._ It has been a very uncomfortable week at the chicken farm, I take it. The heat has been of the quality that makes breathing like inhaling the steam of a wash-boiler.
The twins are presumably teething, and Timothy, I find, mostly comes to our house for a quiet supper with niece Effie and our sympathetic cook, who was overheard condoling with him upon the discomfort the twins and Martha’s whim had brought upon those who were of the age to be grandparents, with their family housework, so to speak, done.
_The 24th._ Effie informs me that Aunt Martha has stopped baking bread, and takes it in from the baker. Timothy, accustomed to whittling wedges from his wife’s durable cottage loaves, supplementing the same with either butter or cheese, did not realize the flimsy quality of the substitute until his knife slipped through the compressible sponge and yesterday gashed his finger deeply.