The boy glanced up, a secret emotion burning in his eyes. "No, monsieur."
"You are quite alone?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And why are you here—to play or to work?"
The question was unwarrantable, but an Irishman can dispense with warranty in a manner unknown to other men. It had ever been Blake's way to ask what he desired to know.
This time no offence showed itself in the boy's face.
"In part to work, in part to play, monsieur," he answered, gravely; "in part to learn life."
The reply was strange to Blake's ears—strange in its grave sincerity, stranger still in its quiet fearlessness.
"But you are such a child!" he cried, impulsively. "You—"
Imperceptibly the slight figure stiffened, the proud look flashed again into the eyes.