"Lady, your shawl!"
The child could utter no more. Those large, blue eyes were bent upon her face. Her own seemed fascinated by the gaze. Slowly, sadly they filled with tears, drop by drop, and the eyes of that strange, beautiful woman filled also. Still she gazed upon the child—her clean, poverty-stricken dress—her meek face, and the basket of fruit and flowers upon her arm; and as she gazed, a faint smile crept around her mouth.
"This sweet voice—the flowers—is it not a beautiful welcome?" she said, glancing through her tears upon the man who stood close by her side; but the uncouth friend, or servant, whatever he might be, did not answer. His eyes were riveted on the child, and some strange feeling seemed to possess him.
"Give me," said the lady, passing her hand over Julia's head with a caressing motion—"give me some of these roses; it is a long time since I have touched a flower grown in home soil!"
Julia selected her freshest bouquet and held it up. The lady's hand trembled as she drew forth her purse, and dropping a bright coin into the basket, received the flowers.
"Take a few of the strawberries, lady, they are so ripe and cool!" said the little girl, lifting one of the baskets from its leafy nest.
Again the lady smiled through her tears, and taking the little basket, poured a few of the strawberries into her ungloved hand.
"Would not he like some?" questioned the child, offering the basket with its scarcely diminished contents to the man, who still kept his eyes fixed on her face.
"No, not them—but give me a bunch of the blue flowers—they grew around the rock-spring at the old homestead, thousands and thousands on 'em!" cried the man, with a strong Down East pronunciation, and securing a tuft of the violets he turned aside, as if ashamed of the emotion he had betrayed.
The lady turned away. Something in his words seemed to have disturbed her greatly. She gathered the shawl about her, and moved towards a carriage that had drawn close up to the wharf.