Suddenly Femke became serious.
“I know that you are a good boy; and I think a great deal of you.”
“And I!” cried Walter. “Femke, I have thought of you all the time—when I was sick—in my fever—I don’t know what I thought of in my fever, but I think it must have been you. And I talked to the picture I painted for you as if it were you; and that picture answered like you and looked like you. I was Kusco and Telasco, and you were Aztalpa, the daughter of the sun. Tell me, Femke, may I be your friend?”
The girl reflected a moment; and in her pure, innocent heart she felt the desire to do good. Was that seventeen-year-old girl conscious of the influence that Walter’s childish soul exerted upon her? Scarcely. But she wanted to give him a less cruel answer.
“Certainly, certainly you shall be my friend. But—but——”
She was hunting for some excuse that would not hurt him, and still let him see the difference in their ages. He had grown during his illness, to be sure, but still—she could have carried him on her arm. And he had dreamed of rescuing her from a fire!
“My friend, yes. But then you must do everything that I require.”
“Everything, everything! Tell me quick what I can do for you.”
It was painful for the girl. She didn’t know what she should require; but she was under the necessity of naming something. She had always heard that it was good for children to study hard. What if she should spur him on to do that?
“Listen, Walter. Just for fun I told my mother that you were the best in school.”