"Who brought you?"
"Phratos," answered the child, with a stifled sob in her throat.
"And who is that?"
"Phratos," answered the child again.
"Is that a man or a woman?"
The child made no reply; she seemed not to comprehend his meaning. The miller shook her again, and some drops of water fell from the ice that was dissolving in the warmth.
"Why are you come here?" he asked, impatiently.
She shook her head, as though to say none knew so little of herself as she.
"You must have a name," he pursued harshly and in perplexity. "What are you called? Who are you?"
The child suddenly raised her great eyes that had been fastened on the leaping flames, and flashed them upon his in a terror of bewildered ignorance—the piteous terror of a stray dog.