“The son of my father’s cousin Liot?”
“Yes. Liot Borson is dead, and here am I.”
“You are welcome, for you were to come. My father talked often of his cousin Liot. They are both gone away from this world.”
“I think they have found each other again. Who can tell?”
“Among the great multitude that no man can number, it might not be easy.”
“If God willed it so?”
“That would be sufficient. This is your little cousin Vala; she is nearly two years old. Is she not very pretty?”
“I know not what to say. She is too pretty for words.”
“Sit down, cousin, and tell me all.”
And as they talked her eyes enthralled him. They were deep blue, and had a solar brilliancy as if they imbibed light–holy eyes, with the slow-moving pupils that indicate a religious, perhaps a mystical, soul. David sat with her until sunset, and she gave him a simple meal of bread and tea, and talked confidentially to him of Liot and of her own father and brothers. But of herself she said nothing at all; neither could David find courage to ask her a single question.