“I’ve heard about the well and the olive-tree,” said the child; “I don’t care so much about them. But all the rest—” She drew a quick breath. “It is very beautiful. I knew it would be. I knew it would be!”
There was silence in the room.
“Thank you for telling me,” said Betty Harris. “Now I must go.” She slipped from the chair with a little sigh. She stood looking about the dim shop. “Now I must go,” she repeated, wistfully.
Achilles moved a step toward the shelf. “Yes—but wait—I will show you.” He reached up to the box and took it down lightly. “I show you.” He was removing the cover.
The child leaned forward with shining eyes.
A smile came into the dark, grave face looking into the box. “Ah, he has blossomed—for you.” He held it out to her.
She took it in shy fingers, bending to it. “It is beautiful,” she said, softly. “Yes—beautiful!”
The dark wings, with shadings of gold and tender blue, lifted themselves a little, waiting.
The child looked up. “May I touch it?” she asked.
“Yes—But why not?”