One glance at Reginald's earnest little face would have convinced any one that he was wildly interested.
His round, blue eyes never left Aunt Charlotte's face while she was reading. The story of Ponce de Leon's search for the fountain of youth was more exciting than any fairy tale that he had ever heard. He saw no pathos in the old Spaniard's useless search. The picture which the history painted for him showed only the little band of swarthy men following their handsome, white-haired leader through the wild, unexplored South, their picturesque, gaily colored costumes gleaming in the sunlight.
How brilliant the pageant! How brave, how valiant they must have appeared! Even the gorgeous wild flowers paled with chagrin as the bold, venturesome Spaniards trampled them underfoot as they marched steadily onward, hoping yet to find the crystal fountain which should grant to them eternal youth.
When Aunt Charlotte ceased reading, she said:
“Now, take your pencils, and write all that you remember of what I have read.”
How their pencils flew! In a short time their papers were ready, and the little pupils proved that they had been attentive, many of the sketches giving the story almost word for word. Of course the older girls had written most accurately, but a few lines which little Flossie Barnet had written showed her tender, loving heart.
“I'm sorry for the poor old Spanyard, for a fountane like that wouldn't be anywhere, so I wish he and his brave men had sailed across the sea and land to hunt for something that he could truly find.”
Some faulty spelling, but no error in the loving, tender heart. The pathos of the story had touched her.
Reginald was but a few months older than Flossie, but he was not sensitive, and only the adventure, the beauty described appealed to him. He looked at Flossie in surprise when she had finished reading her little sketch, and wondered that she could see anything pathetic in the tale.
Then he rose to read his own effort at story-telling.