It was one quiet misty morning that, as we sat together in tranquil
talk, we heard faltering steps within our garden. We had seen, let me
say, very little of the other inhabitants of our valley. We had
sometimes seen a pair of figures wandering at a distance, and we had
even met neighbours and exchanged a greeting. But the valley had no
social life of its own, and no one ever seemed, so far as we knew, to
enter any other dwelling, though they met in quiet friendliness. Cynthia
went to the door and opened it; then she darted out, and, just when I
was about to follow, she returned, leading by the hand a tiny child, who
looked at us with an air of perfect contentment and simplicity.
"Where on earth has this enchanting baby sprung from?" said Cynthia,
seating the child upon her lap, and beginning to talk to it in a
strangely unintelligible language, which the child appeared to
understand perfectly.
I laughed. "Out of our two hearts, perhaps," I said. At which Cynthia
blushed, and said that I did not understand or care for children. She
added that men's only idea about children was to think how much they
could teach them.
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