She hesitated a moment, with a pretty look of seriousness—and then answered:
"Why, yes, I could do that; but—but that would n't be doing fair by you"—passing her fine thin fingers through the brown curls in a puzzled way;—"no, that would n't be fair to you."
"Of course it's fair," I averred encouragingly—"we can't bother with fractions, and I have no more small change. That is all right."
"No, it is n't all right," she returned—making the exchange with some reluctance;—"it isn't right to take more than the worth of our money; but I don't really know how to fix it. I'll ask papa when he comes home, and we'll send you the difference—if there is any.—Oh! yes, I will!—I'll send it to the hotel.—It would n't be right to keep it."
All vain my protests.
"No, no! I'm sure we owe you something. Valentine! Léonie!—say good-bye—nicely!"
So the golden-haired babies cooed their "goo'-bye," as I turned the corner, and waved them kisses;—and as I reached the wagon-road by the open gate, I heard again the bird-voice of the little post-mistress singing her onomatopoetic baby-song:
"Bourique—tiquiti, tiquiti, tiquiti; milet—tocoto,
tocoto, tocoto; çouval—tacata, tacata, tacata."