“I wasn’t moping, dear Madame Giche. I was looking at the pictures, and thinking about them;” and the child gave a little forced laugh over her confession.
“Well, what do you think of them all? Now, which do you think is the handsomest face here?” And Madame Giche gave a sweeping glance round, as she stood leaning on her stick.
“This is the face I like best,” was the child’s reply, glancing up at that stranger face, “save for that of his mother.”
“This is the face I like best, my dear, but he broke my heart. Do you know who it is?” inquired the mother, a thrill in her voice.
“Yes, dear Madame Giche—your son,” returned Inna, with a child’s sensitive shame at having listened to so much from Sybil.
“Then—then, you know his story?”
“Yes; Sybil told me. Forgive me, dear [p100] Madame Giche, if I ought not to have heard it. Sybil said I might; it was no secret, when we were talking of it.” Inna’s small fingers grasped Madame Giche’s thin ones.
“Yes, dear; it is no secret.”
The child stroked the hand she held, wondering what she ought to say next, a tear trickling down her cheek; and Madame Giche saw it.
“Are those tears for me, little Inna?” she asked gently.