"When will He come?" asked the child.
"At the end of the world."
"In how many years?"
"Seven," said the nurse.
"Then I shall be twelve years old," Henry would calculate.
This astonishing prediction had so struck him the night before, that at the mere mention of his nurse's name, he began to tell it to his mother. At any other time this confidence would have amused her, but while speaking he had in his bright grey eyes a look that the young woman knew only too well.
"Don't be frightened," she said, "for you are good, and go and play."
The little boy cast a glance at the fire where the black residue alone marked the site of the burnt convent; at the chairs whose backs were no longer the walls of a deep tunnel; at his mother, to know whether he might not remain. Unconsciously he was affected by the sadness overspreading her face. By one of those almost animal intuitions peculiar to extremely sensitive children, he discerned that his presence was vexing to his mother. He kissed her hand, and then suddenly burst into tears.
"What is the matter, my angel, what is the matter?" said Helen, pressing him in her arms and covering him with kisses.
"I thought you were angry with me," he said. Then, warmed by her caresses, he said: "I am going, mamma; I will be good."