As he asked the question, the childish fingers fastened and turned about her wrist, while the young eyes grew big with sympathy. I saw her arm draw hastily back from the contact. Then, after a moment, as though obeying a superior determination, it came forward slowly and reluctantly.
“The veil is not ugly.”
The tone, the action, the undefined look with which she stared at him, impressed the child. A serious expression came over his face,—a look of trying to understand something beyond his ken.
“Is it because you are so very sad?” he said softly.
I felt her panic before the child’s innocent directness and that in her helplessness she turned to me.
“Come here, Jack the Giant Killer,” I said, catching him up and swinging him through the air to plant him firmly on my lap. “How old are you? Where are you going? What makes the steam white, the water wet, and why does the wind sing? Do you know all that?”
“Why is the water wet?” said the youngster.
“You don’t know? Goodness—neither do I!”
The child, with his eyes still on Mademoiselle Duvernoy, extended a pudgy forefinger.
“Is she your sister?”