Mr. Rougeant again bent towards the child: "Where do you live?" he questioned.
"Vere," said the child with such a vague wave of the hand that any of the three corners of the island might have been implicated in her childish, "There."
"But where is it. Down that way"—pointing with his finger,—"or up that way."
The child made a little gesture with her mouth, "a moue" as the French call it, and pointed with her lips towards the bottom of the hill. The farmer mounted his carriage, holding the child in his arms, and drove away. Meanwhile, the child felt quite at home; she was examining this rough man attentively.
An indescribable something was passing within the farmer's soul.
That little child clinging confidently to him, her large blue eyes expressing thankfulness and contentment filled him with a queer, but by no means unpleasant sensation. He was catching a glimpse of the joy that is reaped through performing a good action.
There was something more than this, some power at work which he could not analyze. There was something in that childish voice and mien; that penetrated his soul and reminded him of former days.
He felt a tender sensation gradually overwhelming him. His heart of stone melted, a tear rolled down that hard featured and deep wrinkled visage.
"You cry," said the child, "are you hurt?"
He roused himself, brushed away the tell-tale tear with a quick movement of his right arm and whipped up his horse.