"I hear a noise in the night, like trees in a storm," said Narcisse, tragically, and, drawing himself up, he fetched a tremendous sigh from the pit of his little stomach; "then I put up my hand so,"—and leaning over, he placed three fingers on Mrs. Nimmo's eyelids,—"and my mother's face is quite wet, like leaves in the rain."
Mrs. Nimmo did not reply, and he went on with alarming abruptness. "She cries for the Englishman. I also cried, and one night I got out of bed. It was very fine; there was the night sun in the sky,—you know, madame, there is a night sun and a day sun—"
"Yes, I know."
"I went creeping, creeping to the wharf like a fly on a tree. I was not afraid, for I carried your son in my hand, and he says only babies cry when they are alone."
"And then,—" said Mrs. Nimmo.
"Oh, the beautiful stone!" cried Narcisse, his volatile fancy attracted by a sparkling ring on Mrs. Nimmo's finger.
She sighed, and allowed him to handle it for a moment. "I have just put it on again, little boy. I have been in mourning for the last two years. Tell me about your going to the boat."
"There is nothing to tell," said Narcisse; "it was a very little boat."
"Whose boat was it?"
"The blacksmith's."