It was my first great, bitter
grief.
I remember well the day when I was led with much mysterious solemnity
to see my new sister. She was then a week old.
"You must be quiet, sir," said Mrs. Bundle, a new member of our
establishment, "and not on no account make no noise to disturb your
dear, pretty mamma."
Repressed by this accumulation of negatives, as well as by the size
and dignity of Mrs. Bundle's outward woman, I went a-tiptoe under her
large shadow to see my new acquisition.
Very young children are not always pretty, but my sister was beautiful
beyond the wont of babies. It is an old simile, but she was like a
beautiful painting of a cherub. Her little face wore an expression
seldom seen except on a few faces of those who have but lately come
into this world, or those who are about to go from it. The hair that
just gilded the pink head I was allowed to kiss was one shade paler
than that which made a great aureole on the pillow about the pale face
of my "dear, pretty" mother.
Years afterwards--in Belgium--I bought an old mediaeval painting of a
Madonna. That Madonna had a stiffness, a deadly pallor, a thinness of
face incompatible with strict beauty.
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