“My bairnie, don’t do that!” called Alison, half laughing, half horrified. “Fi donc, quelle saleté!”
Philippe gave her a most roguish glance, scooped up and emptied upon his locks a sort of final bumper cupful, and then rose uncertainly to his fat legs and came to her, lifting a beaming, smeared face for a kiss. Alison wiped his countenance and gave him one.
“Are you all alone, Philippe?”
The child intimated that he was, and then entered unasked upon a long explanation of the complicated reasons which had led him to make a garden of his head.
“I think you had better come up to my room with me and let me brush out that horrid sand, my pretty,” said Alison, wondering what would happen if she held him upside down and shook him. “Veux-tu bien?”
He nodded, and Alison held out a hand. But neither of his were available, since one still clutched his teacup, and the other was tightly closed over some small object.
“What have you there?” asked the girl. It might so well be a beetle or a worm.
Philippe was coy about revealing his treasure, though he evidently desired to display it. But at last he opened a fat fist. “De l’argent!” he said exultingly, for, though immature, he was a true Norman. And indeed there lay in his pink palm a small coin.
There was something about that piece of money which caused Alison’s heart to leap suddenly into her throat; and, to the infant’s dismay, she snatched his treasure from his hand and looked at it closely. It was no coin of France: no coin of any realm at all, in fact, but a Scottish trade token of the town of Inverness.
“Who gave you this, Philippe?” she asked, looking almost frightened. For Mr. Buchanan, who might otherwise have been the donor, had gone away three days ago.