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Updated: June 27, 2025
Bobby refused the food, but he looked at her so mournfully that the first tears of pity her unchildlike eyes had ever shed welled up. She put out her hand timidly and stroked him. It was just before the report of the time-gun that two policemen cleared the stairs, shrouded Auld Jock in his own greatcoat and plaid, and carried him down to the court.
According to them, she was not only the pearl of Princesses for piety and propriety, for goodness and graciousness, but a marvel of unchildlike wisdom, a prodigy of cleverness and learning; in short, a purely perfect creature, loved of the angels to a degree perilous to the succession.
A very miasma of dread enveloped that table, a thing so palpable that Miss Annabel found herself starting at a sound, the minister's ready tongue faltered on a favourite phrase, Esther's clear voice grew blurred, Aunt Amy wrung her hands, Jane's eyes were wide with unchildlike care. Only Callandar seemed undisturbed, courteous, interested.
But in her heart granny was saying that it would be a very good thing for me to have some companions of my own age, to prevent my getting fanciful and unchildlike, and, worst of all, too much taken up with myself. A few days after that, grandmamma told me that the three Nestor girls were coming twice a week to read French with her.
One queer and most unchildlike habit she had, which, as if thinking it wrong, she only indulged when quite alone; she loved to sit before a looking-glass and gaze into her own face. At such times her little countenance became very sad without any understood reason.
"Oh, but smell how delicious it is!" I persisted. Katenka was with me in the britchka; her lovely head inclined as she gazed pensively at the roadway. I looked at her in silence and wondered what had brought the unchildlike expression of sadness to her face which I now observed for the first time there. "We shall soon be in Moscow," I said at last. "How large do you suppose it is?"
"He-a! he-a! he-a!" she wailed again a thin, shrill, unchildlike sound that made Janice shudder. The cry was almost one of anger, surely that stamping of her foot denoted vexation. Janice could see the profile of the child's face, a sweet, wistful countenance. Her lips moved once more and, in a thin, flat voice, she murmured over and over again: "I have lost it! I have lost it!"
"Go and speak prettily to Miss Devon, my pets, for she is coming to play with you, and you must mind what she says," commanded mamma. The pale, fretful-looking little pair went solemnly to Christie's knee, and stood there staring at her with a dull composure that quite daunted her, it was so sadly unchildlike. "What is your name, dear?" she asked, laying her hand on the young lady's head.
Under the shade of trees or sharing warm shelter with the soft-eyed cows, he would teach her from his small stock of knowledge. Every now and then she would startle him with an intuition, a comment strangely unchildlike. It was as if she had known all about it, long ago. Father Jean would steal a swift glance at her from under his shaggy eyebrows and fall into a silence.
He noted the unchildlike expression on the thin face and felt her trembling in his arms, but before he could think of anything cheerful to say, Jerome bounded out of the house and met her half way up the steps with the impulsive words, "I was very rude to you yesterday, Tabitha, and I am truly sorry. I was all to blame and I should have told Miss Brooks so. Won't you be friends with me now?"
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