“Yes, but do you? Does it ever speak to you, or only stand looking like that?”
She gazed at me with her wondering eyes, and then at the images beneath us.
“Why, don’t you know me, there with the wreath on?—and you? it is so droll that any one should not know herself.”
I caught my breath.
“What?” I exclaimed, “does that child look like me? is it me?”
“Why, yes, who else, please?” cried my companion gaily, “see, it is your hair, so black, and your pretty frock too; and the eyes, they look like stars in the water.”
I looked upon the two figures, the fair, blooming little beauty—the dark, earnest, haughty but sparkling face that bent over her. After a moment, I said slowly, as if speaking of a picture, “yes, it is me, and I am beautiful!”
“Indeed you are,” exclaimed the child, with a gaiety that disturbed me, for this conviction of my own loveliness gave a serious, almost sad impression to my thoughts; “papa calls me his blossom, you shall be his star. Shall she not, my own darling papa?”
I looked up and saw a gentleman standing upon the bank looking calmly, and with a gentle smile upon us as we stood. He was dressed in black, somewhat worn, and had a subdued meekness in his deportment, which won my childish heart in an instant.
“Well, Cora, are you ready to return home?” he said, with a quiet smile.