“Yes,” said Anne; “she was a very remarkable looking person.”
“Na’ but the eyes of her! They made me that I near sat down and fainted—they had sic a wistful, murning look in them. The bairn’s are no unlike. Haud up your head, Lilie, my lamb—only it wad tak watching and sorrow, if I’m no far mistaken, to gie her yon look. Waes me, Miss Anne! it spoke o’ a sair heart!”
“But Lilie’s are bright and happy,” said Anne, drawing the child closer to her, and looking affectionately upon the little face, from which shone eyes deep enough in their liquid darkness to mirror forth great sorrows. “We must not let grief come near Lilie.”
“Lilie blythe—blythe?” said the child, clinging to her side. “Lilie no like happy. Blythe is bonnier! Lilie go the morn—up—up!”
“To the hills, Lilie?”
“Up—up!” said the child, imitating with feet and hands the motions of climbing. “Lilie look away far—at the water.”
“At the Oran, Lilie?”
“Where he go to?” asked Lilie, pointing through the window to the brown, foaming water—”rinning fast? Where he go to?”
“To the sea, Lilie,” said Anne.
“Yes—yes,” said the child. “Lilie once sail upon the sea; row—row—in a big boat. Lilie likes to look at it.”