Again Claude hesitated, finally venturing the request: "Could you, perhaps, show me a little of the way?"
"You'm goin' fin' Miss Deb?"
Claude bowed.
"I'll come."
The small figure rose suddenly, descended from his dais, and put one small black fist trustfully into de Mailly's. Claude looked down into the childish face, with its round pate covered with black, woolly, hair, and a gentle light came into his eyes. He was fond of children.
The swamp appeared to be some distance away. The child's steps were short, and Claude would not hurry him. At last, however, they came upon a narrow, grassy lane, bordered on either side by a tangle of vines and bushes, at the end of which was the so-called swamp—a marsh nearly dry at this season, save for a pool in its very centre. Upon the edge of this they paused. Before them was a waste wherefrom sprang a few saplings, some young willows, a tangle of flaming tiger-lilies, and a host of those plants which grow in damp places. Claude saw no sign of a human being, but Sambo presently sprang forward.
"Deh she is!" he cried, running into the brush. Claude followed rapidly, coming at last in sight of her whom he sought.
Deborah knelt upon the damp ground, bending over a plant which she was minutely examining. Claude had seen it and its flower often enough, he thought. The stem was perhaps three feet high, with long, narrow, spotted leaves, and clusters of small purplish flowers. These were what Deborah was studying, and on her flushed face was an expression which Claude had not beheld before. Startled by Sambo's appearance, she looked up.
"Oh, good-morning!" she said, rising, and extending her hand.
"One finds you in curious places," he observed, bending over it.