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Show Page 157 "Last week Sarah seemed stronger to me," Anne said, as she sat taking stitches in a tiny nightgown. "She does not seem so this week." She laid aside her sewing, reached down to where the babe lay in a cradle beside her and put her hand upon the tiny head. "Perhaps it is my imagination though, for Francis has become such a wee demon these few days past I suspect the contrast casts Sarah in a poorer light." "Likely that is so," I told her. "Francis does not give a muskeet time to light." At that moment the boy crawled past my stool, a wooden trencher balanced upon his head. "He plays so hard, he won't wake from his nap in the afternoon unless I rouse him," said Anne. "If I let him sleep on, he is owl-eyed all night and I do not get my rest. And waking him is never easy, for he sleeps just like his father. In truth, I believe the thunder could roll across our bed and Cisly would not hear it." Little Sarah whimpered, and Anne again reached down to stroke the babe. When her whimpers did not stop, instead becoming a thin cry, Anne picked her up and put her to her breast. But Sarah would not suckle, patient as Anne was, and as hard as she coaxed. "She must be overwearied," Anne explained. "She has not had her nap yet today, though most times she seems to be half asleep." She laid the baby back in her cradle, set it |
