As I wander to an’ fro.”
No words could describe fitly the wonderful, wooing sweetness, the bird-like melody of the little one’s voice as it rose soft and clear above the clatter of the moving train—every word, though uttered in broken baby dialect, distinctly audible to the listeners.
The innocent little child, absorbed in the delight of her own performance, appeared as unconscious of them all as some wild-wood bird caroling alone upon its leafy nest, and produced as pure an effect upon her hearers.
When she stopped no one moved or spoke for a minute, then the red-faced drummer chuckled:
“Sweetheart, you’re an out-and-out prima-donna!”
The others were touched and silent.
CHAPTER II.
Sweetheart herself remained quite silent and pensive for a moment after her little song, as if it had touched some chord of sadness in her heart. Then she nestled her curly head softly against Norman de Vere’s broad breast.
“Sweet’art tired, Sweet’art s’eepy,” she lisped in a plaintive tone, and shut her eyes.
He held her closely in a tender clasp, looking down admiringly at the lovely baby face, fair as carven pearl, and tinted warmly yet delicately as a Mme. de Watteville rose. How richly fringed with thick gold were the full white lids; how lovely the curve of the scarlet lips; how deep the dimple—a perfect Cupid’s nest—in the exquisite chin! His eyes dwelt long and lingeringly on every perfect outline, and he said to himself, with a half smile: