“And we were so pitifully stupid,” she answered, “when I think now how you wanted to whistle, and could not.”
“Do you remember that?” he asked, and his eyes sparkled in the consciousness of his present attainments in the art.
“Of course,” she replied; “and when you went away you came running back and—do you still remember?”
He remembered very well.
“Now you can whistle, of course,” she laughed; “at our age that is no longer an accomplishment—even I can do it,” and she pointed her lips in a very funny manner.
He was sad that she spoke so slightingly of his art, and reflected whether it would not be better to give up whistling altogether.
“Why are you so silent?” she asked. “Are you tired, too?”
“Oh no, but you—eh?”
Yes; the walk through the sand and the noontide heat had tired her.
“Then come into our house and rest,” he cried, with sparkling eyes, for he thought what joy his mother would feel at seeing her.