“What is it, little one? Don’t look like that. What is troubling you?”
“Take me in your arms, nurse,” said the child.
The nurse seated herself on a low rocking-chair and lifted the boy into her embrace. His face was deadly white again, the faint trace of color having left it, but his eyes, large and beautiful, were fixed with wonder in them on the nurse.
“Are you,” he said, speaking very slowly and with pauses between, “the same woman—who—used to nurse me when—I was—very ill—at home?”
“Yes, dear.”
“You had red hair?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I didn’t like you then.”
“No, dear.”
“But”—he glanced up at her—“your hair isn’t red now: it’s gold, and I like you.”