There was silence a while between the children, and then Squib asked in a tentative fashion,—
“You are not unhappy, Seppi?”
The dark eyes were turned full upon him, and Seppi smiled.
“No,” he answered softly, “I don’t think I am unhappy, little Herr; I have thought about it so often. I think it will be better really, perhaps; only—only—well, I suppose it is always rather hard to go away when one loves everything so much.”
“Yes,” answered Squib with sympathy, “I think that is the hard part of it—and you love your valley so much. But you know it will be just as beautiful there—perhaps it may even be more beautiful. We don’t know because we have never seen it.”
Seppi gently shook his head, and smiled.
“That’s always what I try to think—that it will be so much more beautiful than this that I shan’t want ever to come back. I don’t suppose people ever do really. Only sometimes one can hardly help thinking one would.”
“No, of course not,” answered Squib eagerly, “and you especially, because you are so fond of your valley and mountains; but I think the other will be better. I really do.”
“I think so too—really,” answered Seppi softly. “I’m glad you know about it, little Herr. I didn’t know whether I could talk to you about it.”
“Oh yes, you can—if you like,” answered Squib eagerly; “I didn’t know you knew anything about it yourself. I shouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t. But I do like to know what you think about it. Will you mind going very much?—and will Ann-Katherin mind?”