Mr. Bonstone smiled one of his rare, peculiar smiles.
“Yes, and leads you on, too, like a beacon. If Stanna and I have no children, that child may be the light of our old age.”
At that moment, she came in the room with the brown baby in her arms.
“I just wanted you to see her this morning, Norman,” she said, “she’s so unusually sweet.”
Her adopted father chuckled to her, and clucked quite like a real one.
Master examined her with the eye of a connoisseur, then as he could never help dragging in his own young one, he said, “She seems like a giantess compared to my small son.”
“Just look at her dimples, Norman,” continued Mrs. Bonstone. “Aren’t they fetching this morning, and that cute little way her hair curls round her forehead? Seems to me, it’s more curly than usual.”
“And her lovely dark skin,” said Mr. Bonstone grimly. “Say, Stanna—you’re not planning any nonsense about keeping the knowledge of her people from her?”
“Do you suppose I would ever allow a child of mine to be ashamed of its origin?” said Mrs. Bonstone. “I have taken her several times to see those good creatures who were willing to adopt her. They are not a bit envious, and finger her pretty clothes with the utmost satisfaction. It reminds me of the first day her poor mother saw her dressed up. Oh! Norman, if you could have seen her face. Cyria did look like an angel in her white silk cloak and bonnet.”