“Come,” he said very gently. “You are only six years old today.”
She laughed as she let him take her. Then she nestled up to him, smiling in a brilliant, child-like fashion. He kissed her with all the father in him sadly alive.
“Now put your stockings on,” he said.
“But my feet are wet.” She laughed.
He kneeled down and dried her feet on his handkerchief while she sat tossing his hair with her finger-tips. The sunlight grew more and more golden.
“I envy the savages their free feet,” she said.
“There is no broken glass in the wilderness—or there used not to be,” he replied.
As they were crossing the sands, a whole family entered by the cliff track. They descended in single file, unequally, like the theatre; two boys, then a little girl, the father, another girl, then the mother. Last of all trotted the dog, warily, suspicious of the descent. The boys emerged into the bay with a shout; the dog rushed, barking, after them. The little one waited for her father, calling shrilly:
“Tiss can’t fall now, can she, dadda? Shall I put her down?”
“Ay, let her have a run,” said the father.