Jinnie leaned forward and scrutinized him intently.
“You mean,” she demanded brokenly, “that you can’t see me, nor Happy Pete, nor the trees, nor the birds, nor the squirrels, skipping around?”
The boy bowed his head in assent, but brightened almost instantly. 100
“No, I can’t see those things, but I’ve got lots of stars inside my head. They’re as bright as anything, only sometimes my tears put ’em out.”
Then, as if he feared he would lose his new friend, he felt for her hand once more.
Jinnie returned the clinging pressure. For the second time in her life her heart beat with that strange emotion—the protective instinct she had felt for her father. She knew at that moment she loved this little lad, with his wide-staring, unseeing eyes.
“I’m lost,” said the boy, sighing deeply, “and I cried ever so long, but nobody would come, and my stars all went out.”
“Tell me about your stars,” she said eagerly. “Are they sky stars?”
“I dunno what sky stars are. My stars shine in my head lovely and I get warm. I’m cold all over and my heart hurts when they go out.”
“Oh!” murmured Jinnie. “I wish they’d always shine.”