You were at your best when you were asleep, but you would
not even sleep when it was expected of you. I think, Robina, that
the fellows who draw the pictures for the comic journals of the man
in his night-shirt with the squalling baby in his arms must all be
single men. The married man sees only sadness in the design. It is
not the mere discomfort. If the little creature were ill or in pain
we should not think of that. It is the reflection that we, who meant
so well, have brought into the world just an ordinary fretful human
creature with a nasty temper of its own: that is the tragedy,
Robina. And then you grew into a little girl. I wanted the soulful
little girl with the fathomless eyes, who would steal to me at
twilight and question me concerning life's conundrums.
"But I used to ask you questions," grumbled Robina, "and you would
tell me not to be silly."
"Don't you understand, Robina?" I answered. "I am not blaming you, I
am blaming myself. We are like children who plant seeds in a garden,
and then are angry with the flowers because they are not what we
expected. You were a dear little girl; I see that now, looking back.
But not the little girl I had in my mind. So I missed you, thinking
of the little girl you were not. We do that all our lives, Robina.
We are always looking for the flowers that do not grow, passing by,
trampling underfoot, the blossoms round about us. It was the same
with Dick.
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