"Oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street," Gladys exclaimed. And Françoise understood what she meant, thanks to her tugs the other way, and set to work assuring her she had no such intention.
"Are you frightened of crossing?" said a voice close beside her—an English voice belonging to a gentleman who had heard her piteous entreaty.
"Yes, dreadfully. I'm sure we'll be killed if she takes us over," replied Gladys, lifting her little white face and troubled eyes to the stranger.
He turned to Françoise and explained to her that it was hardly safe to attempt to cross, especially as the little girl was so frightened. He spoke, of course, in French, which seemed to him as easy as his own language, and Françoise replied eagerly. Then again the stranger turned to Gladys:
"You need not be afraid, my dear little girl," he said, and his kind voice somehow made the tears come to her eyes, "your nurse does not wish to cross. You have not been long here, I suppose—you don't understand French?"
"No," said Gladys, gulping down a sob, "we've—we've only just come."
"Ah well, you'll soon feel more at home, and be able to explain all you mean for yourself. Good-bye," and raising his hat as perhaps an altogether Englishman would not have done to so little a girl, he smiled again, and in another moment had disappeared in the crowd.
"The nurse seems kind enough, but she's rather stupid—just a peasant. And those children look so refined. But they don't seem happy, poor little souls. I wonder who they can be," said the young man to himself as he walked away.
"I wish he was our Papa," said Roger.