“But it is a jewel!” she cried. “Zitli, how beautiful! A queen might wear it.”
“No jewel, mademoiselle; wood simply, and gold leaf; but there are strokes in it, that I confess!”
Zitli spoke modestly, but his eyes shone; he was proud, as he well might be, of his work.
“Behold my Ladies, who approach!” cried Gretli. “Give me quickly the box, my little one! I will return to find thee a place, fear not!”
The sisters moved away, and the boy and girl were left together.
“Zitli,” cried Honor, “tell me quickly! How is everybody? How is Atli? And La Dumaine, and Séraphine, and Bimbo, and Moufflon, and Tell, and—”
“Sapperli poppette!” cried Zitli, laughing. “One moment, mademoiselle! One at a time, not so? My brother, he is altogether well. He is in the high Alps, hunting the chamois, in manner that he could not come with us to the fête. The animals? Figure to yourself that La Dumaine has a calf! the image of herself, white as the moon, altogether beautiful. Mademoiselle, we have taken the liberty—my sister thought you would not object—briefly, we have named her La Moriole.”
“No! you haven’t! Oh, Zitli, how perfectly darling of you! Oh, I am so delighted! Oh, how I should like to see her!”
“For example! We are hoping, my sister and I—my brother also, if he were not absent—that mademoiselle will soon do us the honor to visit the Châlet again, to see her namesake, and—”
He stopped short, seeing Honor’s face change.