It was growing lighter. A bright dawn, shining over the bay and into the back windows, lighted up the room.
Harcourt laid the child down on his white bed, shrinking involuntarily from the offensiveness of the foul rag that wrapped her.
“And she talks of Roma, and Mr. Merritt, and Dr. Shaw! It is very strange. I cannot comprehend it all. But I will appeal to Annie. Annie will be able to learn more from her than I could,” he said to himself.
“Oh, please, sir, will you give me something to eat?” asked the child.
“Yes, dear. Are you so very hungry?” kindly inquired Harcourt.
“Oh! so hungry—so very hungry! I never was so hungry in all my life before. I am all sunk in, and my stomach has all gone to my backbone—it has, indeed, though you mayn’t believe it.”
“What would you like to have, dear?”
“Bread and butter, with sugar on it,” promptly replied the child.
Harcourt went to his corner cupboard and brought out a pitcher of milk and a loaf of bread.
He cut a slice, spread it with butter, then with sugar, and placed it on a plate; then filled a cup with milk, and took the repast to his little guest.