This little, tender, rosy thing was not stuffed with sawdust, it was stuffed with soul and love.

It could smile; the smile was not painted on its face in a doll-factory.

Maria was so thankful that this baby, Ida's baby, did not have Her smile, unchanging and permanent for all observers and all vicissitudes.

When this baby smiled it smiled, and when it cried it cried.

It was honest from the crown of its fuzzy head to the soles of its little pink worsted socks.
At the first reception which Ida gave after the baby came, and when it was on exhibition in a hand-embroidered robe, it screamed every minute.