“What—what will you do when they are both married, Zitli?” Honor spoke slowly; her eyes were shining as they did when she saw visions.
“Me?” Zitli gave his quaint shrug. “If Madelon makes good pancakes, I remain here—for a time! If not, I go with Gretli. It is not far, to big Pierre’s, only the next Alp. By and by, when I am a man—” he paused; his eyes too shone, as he looked straight before him. He too saw visions.
Honor felt a shock; felt the blood rising to her cheeks. She had never thought of the possibility of Zitli’s growing up. It had seemed as if he must always be as he was now.
“I shall not marry!” the boy announced, and shook his head decidedly. “No! Love, that makes trouble! Not though maidens in rows besought me!”
Again he swept his arm; Honor had an instant’s vision of ranks of kneeling maidens with outstretched arms, imploring; she laughed outright.
“How funny you are, Zitli! What will you do?”
“I shall make musical-boxes!”
Zitli spoke rapidly and decidedly; his supple hands shaped the boxes as he spoke. His plans were evidently well matured.
“Mademoiselle has seen musical boxes in Vevay? Long, thus? Round, thus? Again, square, thus, with perhaps a dancing figure on the top? Naturally! When I am sixteen, I go to Vevay to learn that trade. Already I can make the cases, of course; that is for a child; the inside, that requires instruction, hein? I am apprenticed to M. Morus, it is the uncle of Big Pierre; Margoton by then has married her cheese-merchant, I lodge with them.”
Honor interrupted him.