"Then you ought to live here. Here—everybody is—oh!—so old!"
"Poor little girl," said Jack, with deep sympathy.
"Why?"
"Must be so lonely."
"Oh, no! One cannot feel lonely where there 's a river. Twice every day it brings down news from the meadows, where the flowers are, and the cattle, standing knee-deep in its margin, and the demoiselles—how do you say?—dragonflies—and the willows, dipping their branches in it. And then, when the tide turns, it comes back from the great town, and sings of the ships and the crowded bridges, and the King and Queen taking their pleasure in great, golden barges. And the sea-gulls come with it, and it sings of the sea!"
Her eyes were flashing; her face was transfigured; Jack was leaning forward eagerly, and if there had been any loophole of escape for him before, there was certainly none now.
"Do you love the sea?"
"What do I know of it?" said she, coming to earth again. "I have only crossed from Dunkerque to Tilbury. But that was lovely! It was very rough; and I stood against the mast, and my hair blew all about, and I shouted for joy!—Oh! I should love to be a pirate!"
"Fine!" cried Jack, as excited as she. "Tell you what! We 'll charter a ship, and sweep the seas, and bang the enemy!"
"'We'?—Why, you're going away in a minute, and I shall never see you again."