A DOT AND A DIMPLE
On the day Cyril Henshaw's twins were six months old, a momentous occurrence marked the date with a flaming red letter of remembrance;and it all began with a baby's smile.
Cyril, in quest of his wife at about ten o'clock that morning, and not finding her, pursued his search even to the nursery--a room he very seldom entered. Cyril did not like to go into the nursery. He felt ill at ease, and as if he were away from home--and Cyril was known to abhor being away from home since he was married.
Now that Marie had taken over the reins of government again, he had been obliged to see very little of those strange women and babies. Not but that he liked the babies, of course. They were his sons, and he was proud of them. They should have every advantage that college, special training, and travel could give them. He quite anticipated what they would be to him--when they really knew anything. But, of course, _now_, when they could do nothing but cry and wave their absurd little fists, and wobble their heads in so fearsome a manner, as if they simply did not know the meaning of the word backbone--and, for that matter, of course they didn't--why, he could not be expected to be anything but relieved when he had his den to himself again, with a reasonable chance of finding his manuscript as he had left it, and not cut up into a ridiculous string of paper dolls holding hands, as he had once found it, after a visit from a woman with a small girl.
Since Marie had been at the helm, however, he had not been troubled in such a way. He had, indeed, known almost his old customary peace and freedom from interruption, with only an occasional flitting across his path of the strange women and babies--though he had realized, of course, that they were in the house, especially in the nursery. For that reason, therefore, he always avoided the nursery when possible. But to-day he wanted his wife, and his wife was not to be found anywhere else in the house. So, reluctantly, he turned his steps toward the nursery, and, with a frown, knocked and pushed open the door.
``Is Mrs. Henshaw here?'' he demanded, not over gently.
Absolute silence greeted his question. The man saw then that there was no one in the room save a baby sitting on a mat in the middle of the floor, barricaded on all sides with pillows.
With a deeper frown the man turned to go, when a gleeful ``Ah--goo!'' halted his steps midway.
He wheeled sharply.
``Er--eh?'' he queried, uncertainly eyeing his small son on the floor.
``Ah--goo!'' observed the infant (who had been very lonesome), with greater emphasis; and this time he sent into his father's eyes the most bewitching of smiles.
``Well, by George!'' murmured the man, weakly, a dawning amazement driving the frown from his face.
``Spgggh--oo--wah!'' gurgled the boy, holding out two tiny fists.
A slow smile came to the man's face.
``Well, I'll--be--darned,'' he muttered half-shamefacedly, wholly delightedly. ``If the rascal doesn't act as if he--knew me!''
``Ah--goo--spggghh!'' grinned the infant, toothlessly, but entrancingly.
With almost a stealthy touch Cyril closed the door back of him, and advanced a little dubiously toward his son. His countenance carried a mixture of guilt, curiosity, and dogged determination so ludicrous that it was a pity none but baby eyes could see it. As if to meet more nearly on a level this baffling new acquaintance, Cyril got to his knees--somewhat stiffly, it must be confessed --and faced his son.
``Goo--eee--ooo--yah!'' crowed the baby now, thrashing legs and arms about in a transport of joy at the acquisition of this new playmate.
``Well, well, young man, you--you don't say so!'' stammered the growingly-proud father, thrusting a plainly timid and unaccustomed finger toward his offspring. ``So you do know me, eh? Well, who am I?''
``Da--da!'' gurgled the boy, triumphantly clutching the outstretched finger, and holding on with a tenacity that brought a gleeful chuckle to the lips of the man.
``Jove! but aren't you the strong little beggar, though! Needn't tell me you don't know a good thing when you see it! So I'm `da-da,' am I?''
he went on, unhesitatingly accepting as the pure gold of knowledge the shameless imitation vocabulary his son was foisting upon him. ``Well, Iexpect I am, and--''
``Oh, Cyril!'' The door had opened, and Marie was in the room. If she gave a start of surprise at her husband's unaccustomed attitude, she quickly controlled herself. ``Julia said you wanted me. I must have been going down the back stairs when you came up the front, and--''
``Please, Mrs. Henshaw, is it Dot you have in here, or Dimple?'' asked a new voice, as the second nurse entered by another door.
Before Mrs. Henshaw could answer, Cyril, who had got to his feet, turned sharply.
``Is it--_who_?'' he demanded.
``Oh! Oh, Mr. Henshaw,'' stammered the girl.
``I beg your pardon. I didn't know you were here.
It was only that I wanted to know which baby it was. We thought we had Dot with us, until--''
``Dot! Dimple!'' exploded the man. ``Do you mean to say you have given my _sons_ the ridiculous names of `_Dot_' and `_Dimple_'?''
``Why, no--yes--well, that is--we had to call them something,'' faltered the nurse, as with a despairing glance at her mistress, she plunged through the doorway.
Cyril turned to his wife.
``Marie, what is the meaning of this?'' he demanded.
``Why, Cyril, dear, don't--don't get so wrought up,'' she begged. It's only as Mary said, we _had_ to call them something, and--''
``Wrought up, indeed!'' interrupted Cyril, savagely. ``Who wouldn't be? `Dot' and `Dimple'!
Great Scott! One would think those boys were a couple of kittens or puppies; that they didn't know anything--didn't have any brains!
But they have--if the other is anything like this one, at least,'' he declared, pointing to his son on the floor, who, at this opportune moment joined in the conversation to the extent of an appropriate ``Ah--goo--da--da!''
