Part 35 (2/2)
Mr. Rougeant again bent towards the child: ”Where do you live?” he questioned.
”Vere,” said the child with such a vague wave of the hand that any of the three corners of the island might have been implicated in her childish, ”There.”
”But where is it. Down that way”--pointing with his finger,--”or up that way.”
The child made a little gesture with her mouth, ”a _moue_” as the French call it, and pointed with her lips towards the bottom of the hill. The farmer mounted his carriage, holding the child in his arms, and drove away. Meanwhile, the child felt quite at home; she was examining this rough man attentively.
An indescribable something was pa.s.sing within the farmer's soul.
That little child clinging confidently to him, her large blue eyes expressing thankfulness and contentment filled him with a queer, but by no means unpleasant sensation. He was catching a glimpse of the joy that is reaped through performing a good action.
There was something more than this, some power at work which he could not a.n.a.lyze. There was something in that childish voice and mien; that penetrated his soul and reminded him of former days.
He felt a tender sensation gradually overwhelming him. His heart of stone melted, a tear rolled down that hard featured and deep wrinkled visage.
”You cry,” said the child, ”are you hurt?”
He roused himself, brushed away the tell-tale tear with a quick movement of his right arm and whipped up his horse.
”Are you hurt?” repeated the little girl who was not to be put off so easily.
”No;” he answered, almost softly.
”Trot; I like to see a horse trot,” said the child.
But Mr. Rougeant was looking round to see if he could discern someone searching for the child.
”What is your father's name?” asked the farmer.
”Papa.”
”Humph! and your mother's?”
”Mamma.”
He tried another expedient. ”What do people say to your papa, Mr.
What.”
”Yes; I fink it's Mr. What.”
The farmer looked puzzled. He saw a man approaching. ”I will ask him if he knows where the child lives,” he was saying to himself, when the little girl exclaimed: ”Ah! there's 'ma; look, she's looking frough the window.”
”'Ma;” she cried, ”I've had a ride.”
Mr. Rougeant looked round. So this was where the child lived. He descended from the phaeton holding the little girl in his arms and stood confronting----his daughter.
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