The girl sat down on his knee and rested one hand on his shoulder.
"Don't laugh at me," she said softly. "I'm not a bit clever, I know.
Just nothing—to you."
"You don't know a bit what you are—but I do. And shall I tell you, just for once, what you are to me?"
The girl laughed happily. "If you'll be sure and only tell the truth!"
"The truth—of course! How could I help it? Now, listen. Once I was in a big town, where there was a picture gallery, and lots of marble statues—like the old Greeks used to make. You've read about them, haven't you?"
"Yes, I think so. But I've never seen them."
"Well, there were lots of these statues, white as snow, and looking just like life. And they were all naked, with never a rag to cover them, but for all that one could look at them, as calm and pure as on the face of God. For they were so beautiful that one could think of nothing but the sacred beauty God has given to the human form. And—can you guess what I'm going to say now?"
"How should I guess?" said the girl, looking down shyly, as if with some inkling she would not confess of what was in his mind.
"Just this—you are like that to me: a marble statue, white and cool, with a beauty that is holy in itself. And I thank God that made you so beautiful and pure."
"Now you're laughing at me again," said the girl sadly.