She, on her part, stood still and watched him with surprise and delight.
The solitary child had not seen another child of any sort, white or black, girl or boy, for more than a year. She had lived only with grown-up people, and very “scroobious” and depressing grown-up people at that. Now her heart leaped for joy at the sight of an angel from her own heaven—another child!
What if he was a poor little lad, with a torn straw hat set on his tangled black curls, a sunburned face, a patched coat, trowsers rolled up to his knees, and below them naked legs and feet? He was another child—an angel from her own heaven! He had come with the sun and the spring, with the birds and the flowers. Here was the crowning joy of the season indeed.
He would be her playmate. He would not rail and weep like Eusebie, nor sigh and groan like Marcel. He would be glad like herself.
Without an instant’s hesitation she ran down to him.
Children, when left to their own intuition, are the most simple and natural democrats and republicans. They care nothing and know nothing of caste. When misled by others, they may become the most repulsive little aristocrats alive.
She stood before him breathless, smiling.
As for the boy, he looked up at her in pleased surprise at the brightest vision that had ever gladdened his eyes.
“Little boy!” she exclaimed, in a tone of kindly greeting.
“Yes, little girl,” he answered, as he arose, dropping his nets and taking off his torn hat.