She surveyed it with dubious content. A little question flitted, and she raised an anxious, startled face. “He might fink it was yours,” she said.
“We ’ll tell him,” said Simeon, “the minute he comes.”
“I ’ll tell him.” The eyes had flashed wide. They shone dizzily—the little hands clasped themselves—“I ’ll tell him,” she whispered.
“All right.”
She sat very straight, her gaze fixed on the exact spot where he should come.... Her shoulders drooped a little, but she caught them at it and shook them sternly. Then the eyes blinked—once—twice, and the brown curls nodded. The watching figure was sinking inch by inch into the great folds that enwrapped it. She lifted a heavy, dreamy face to Simeon’s—“I can’t keep—awake—Cinnamon,” she breathed—very wistful—with little jerks between.
“Never mind, dear.” He laid a hand on the bending head. “Go to sleep. I ’ll wake you when he comes.”
With a deep sigh, the head sank against the strong shoulder. The firelight played across the little figure in its clumsy garments; it touched the sleeping face and tipped the nodding curls.
Simeon watched it, the world in his heart speaking low.