On reaching the chemist’s door she stopped—paused before entering the shop, and looked in at the window—hesitated, and walked away a little—hesitated again, and took the first turning which led back to the beach.
Without looking about her, without caring what place she chose, she seated herself on the shingle. The only persons who were near to her, in the position she now occupied, were a nursemaid and two little boys. The youngest of the two had a tiny toy-ship in his hand. After looking at Magdalen for a little while with the quaintest gravity and attention, the boy suddenly approached her, and opened the way to an acquaintance by putting his toy composedly on her lap.
“Look at my ship,” said the child, crossing his hands on Magdalen’s knee.
She was not usually patient with children. In happier days she would not have met the boy’s advance toward her as she met it now. The hard despair in her eyes left them suddenly; her fast-closed lips parted and trembled. She put the ship back into the child’s hands and lifted him on her lap.
“Will you give me a kiss?” she said, faintly. The boy looked at his ship as if he would rather have kissed the ship.
She repeated the question—repeated it almost humbly. The child put his hand up to her neck and kissed her.
“If I was your sister, would you love me?” All the misery of her friendless position, all the wasted tenderness of her heart, poured from her in those words.
“Would you love me?” she repeated, hiding her face on the bosom of the child’s frock.
“Yes,” said the boy. “Look at my ship.”
She looked at the ship through her gathering tears.