“None, little Nina; he is dead.”
“Dead! What does that mean?”
“Nina, where do you live?”
“My papa’s name is William: now tell me what dead means.”
“You could not understand me, dear child, if I were to tell you; show me where you live and I will come and explain it all for you.”
“Over there we live,” and the child pointed to a cottage half hid among the trees. It seemed a perfect love of a cottage. Frank felt irresistibly tempted to go and see “Agneth;” but he merely kissed the little Nina good-by and put her down. The child went to her pebbles and Frank turned toward his home. He had gone but a few steps on his homeward path, when a slight scream caused him to look around, his little friend in attempting to cross the small bridge of planks, had slipped and fallen into the brook. An instant more and Frank was on the way toward Nina’s home, with Nina in his arms.
The little girl was wet and frightened, but did not seem hurt. She nestled tremblingly in his bosom, making no complaint, save a low sob that came less and less frequent.
“There is my mamma!” exclaimed she, as Frank entered the garden gate.
Nina sprang from his arms and ran up to her mother. Frank thought he had never seen so beautiful a creature; she did not seem older than his sister Clara.
“See, mamma!” eagerly said the little Nina. “Here is Frank. I fell into the brook and he took me out. Wasn’t he a nice Frank? You must love him, mamma.”