Jean looked at him steadily for a long time, her hazel eyes meeting his of darker brown. Then she played with his watch-chain. Presently she was induced to display all her accomplishments. She pointed to her feet when they were named, to her eyes, her hair, and even, ‘by request,’ to her tongue.
Sitting there and watching them in the shadows of the firelight, I could not help thinking how much alike they were.
Jean played until she was sleepy; then she yawned, and the Lad laughed to see the tears come into her eyes.
By and by her head nodded; she was almost asleep. Not content with her position, she crawled up, as she did with her father, and put her head down in the Lad’s neck, then went to sleep with one helpless hand hanging over his shoulder, the other softly patting him.
The Lad started when she put down her head; then he held her close.
It was partly the way in which his arm curled round her, and partly the light from her fuzzy hair that made them look like the Murillo picture of Saint Anthony and the Christ-child.
When I went over to take Jean away, the Lad looked up, and I saw that his eyes were moist with tears.
They were faithful lovers after that. Jean used to watch for him from the windows upstairs, and sometimes when she saw him coming she would smile.
He called often, always asking for her. (This was partly because he did not dare ask each time for Janet.) And the child was carried downstairs with her arms stretched out impatiently to meet him.
One night he arrived when she was asleep, but her mother sent for her. The nurse came in softly, cradling the child in her arms. Her yellow hair was wet and curly about her face; below her white night-dress hung one baby foot.