He held both the child's hands in his, the left one he held in his left hand, and the right one he held in his right hand. Taking Adèle's right-hand forefinger and placing it in her left hand, he began to tell her a little story about a lark, which he remembered his mother used to recite to him when he was a little boy.
"A little lark built its nest there," he began.
"Here, in my hand?" said the child.
"We shall suppose the little bird did so," answered Mr. Rougeant. "It passed this way, and the thumb caught it."
"Ah-ha," laughed little Adèle.
"This finger plucked its feathers, this one cooked it, and—this one ate it."
Frank made some remark.
Mr. Rougeant looked up.
"And the little one," said Adèle, pulling impatiently on her grandfather's sleeve, "you have not told me what the little one did."
"Indeed! well, the little one was left without a single crumb."