"My poor child," said he, with that voice which the strong assume to the weak—the man to some wounded infant—the voice of tender superiority and compassion, "there is no cause for fear now. Be soothed. Do you live near? Shall I see you home?"
"Thank you! That's kind. Pray do!" And, with an infantine confidence she took his hand, as a child does that of a grown-up person;—so they walked on together.
"And," said the stranger, "do you know that man? Has he insulted you before?"
"No—don't talk of him: ce me fait mal!" And she put her hand to her forehead.
The French was spoken with so French an accent, that, in some curiosity, the stranger cast his eye over her plain dress.
"You speak French well."
"Do I? I wish I knew more words—I only recollect a few. When I am very happy or very sad they come into my head. But I am happy now. I like your voice—I like you—Oh! I have dropped my basket!"
"Shall I go back for it, or shall I buy you another?"
"Another!—Oh, no! come back for it. How kind you are!—Ah! I see it!" and she broke away and ran forward to pick it up.
When she had recovered it, she laughed-she spoke to it—she kissed it.