Alice was silent. Her own tears hindered her from making answer to the artless question.
“When I saw him weeping, I, too, wept, and kissed him. He spoke kindly to me; but why did he weep?”
Still no answer from her listening companion.
“Then I dreamt—no, I cannot remember what else I dreamt—yet there was some one else there. I seemed to know his face, too; but a great storm arose, and all became dark, and I grew frightened. What was that?”
“Alas! Sansuta, I cannot read my own dreams, far less yours.”
But Sansuta had already forgotten her question, and was again singing softly to herself.
Presently she stopped once more, and putting both arms around Alice’s neck, murmured that she was tired.
The pale-faced maiden kissed her, and, as she did so, the tears from her eyes fell on Sansuta’s cheek.
“Why do you weep? Who has injured you?”
Had Alice framed her thoughts into words she would have answered, the whole world; but, instead, she only replied to her companion with gentle endearments, and, at length, caressed her into a gentle sleep.