“And what has happened since last Saturday?” she says.
The Child laughs for pure joy. To talk, to describe, to venture at analysis, to ask the why and wherefore, to illustrate by gesture as vivid as her speech—these things are her happiness. To be suffered this joy in snatches is much, to have it demanded, and for one whole afternoon! Here is no one to reprove, no one to blame the idle hands, no one to question the propriety of mimicry, or to insist on her sitting in her little chair.
Miss Salome watches her flitting about the dusky parlor, her reddish gold hair gleaming now against the Delft blue, now against the polished mahogany desk. She tells of the chickens that lost their mother. She wanders about clucking for her brood and cooing over the returned prodigals. She walks across the room as William does—her slouching gait, open mouth, drawling voice, irresistibly perfect. She describes the shooting star that seemed to her like a lost spirit, gone to sorrow and the earth.
“It made me think of ‘Lucifer, son of the morning, how art thou fallen!’” she says solemnly. “I wonder how that star felt, Miss Salome?”
There is a long pause. The lady sighs.
Then, “You may read, if you like,” she says at last.
The Child’s face flushes for joy. She runs to the book-cases and brings out a small brown book. She fingers lovingly the tree-calf that covers the precious pages, and opens them before she finds her chair. She curls up on a great satin ottoman and smooths the leaves. Where is the farm? Where the peas? Where William? They are less than shadows, more unreal than dreams. Her voice trembles as she begins:
“’And now, your Highness permitting, I shall relate to your Majesty one of the most surprising adventures ever known to your Majesty—’” Ah, it is good to have been a child and perfectly happy.
What do children know of life, she thinks, who play with tops and dogs and kittens? There are books in the world. And they own all lands and seas and peoples, who own those printed leaves. Even Miss Salome does not know as much as the books. Even Miss Salome cannot say such curious wonderful things. Why is Miss Salome so good to her? In heaven, will they see each other? “In my Father’s house are many mansions.” Suppose she should be put in Miss Salome’s? Will the “Arabian Nights” be there? When she lifts her eyes from the book they fall on an immense peacock-feather fan. It glows on the wall, and the eyes dilate and tremble and satisfy her hungry little soul with the color she loves. On a small table near her stands a sandal-wood cabinet. Its faint sweet smell mingles with the spices and gums of the tale, and should a Genius spring from the cover and bow to the ground before them, she would not be surprised.
With a sigh of pleasure she releases the princess and outwits the evil spirit.