A Tale of Red Pekin

I can remember quite well when we all came to China. It is four years ago, and I was eight years old, and you can remember when you are three, so father says. I am twelve now, and I feel quite grown up, that is because I am older than any of the others. Most people call me prim and old-fashioned, but mother says I am her right hand. Rachel is the next to me, but she is in a different generation almost, only nine years old, and quite a child. Then there is Jack, he is eight, and Jill, she is seven. Jill is not her name really—they all have Bible names—but we call her that because she and Jack are such friends, and always do everything together. Then there is Tim, he is only five years old, and little baby Anna. Baby Anna is so lovely, and the Chinese women are very fond of her. She has dark eyes, and rings of dark hair all over her head; but somehow she does not look like other children. She smiles, and yet she has a solemn look: that rapt look that the cherubs have, like pictures of the Blessed Lord Himself when He was a little child. Father says so sometimes, but mother does not like it. I never can think why, but she looks so sad, and once I saw her brushing some tears away. I think really, though I have never told anyone else, that mother is afraid baby Anna will not live. I heard the servants talking one day, and nurse said she was sure the baby would never live to grow up.