"It is not late yet," trying to console her darling.
"Pani, I shall go outside the gates. I am so tired. I want to run races to get my breath. It stops just as it does when the fog is in the air."
"No, child, stay here a little longer. It would be sad to miss him. And he is going away."
"Let him go. I think all men are a great trouble! You wait and wait for them. Then, if you go away they are sure to come."
Pani laughed. The child was brimming over with unreason. Yet her eyes were like stars, and in an uncomprehended way the woman felt the charm of her beauty. No, she would never part with her.
"O Pani!" The child sprang up and executed a _pas seul_ worthy of a larger audience. Her first impulse was to run to meet him. Then she suddenly subsided from some inexplicable cause, and a flush came to her cheek as she dropped down on a seat beside the doorway, made of the round of a log, and folded her hands demurely, looking out to the barracks.
Of course she turned when she heard the steps. There was a grave expression on her face, charming innocence that would have led anyone astray.
Pani rose and made an obeisance, and brought forward a chair.
"Or would Monsieur rather go in doors?" she inquired.
"O no. Little one--" he held out his hand.
"I thought you had forgotten. It is late," she said plaintively.
"I am a busy man, my child. I could wish for a little of the freedom that you rejoice in so exuberantly, though I dare say I shall have enough on my journey."
What a companion this gay, chattering child would be, going through new scenes!
"Mademoiselle, are you ever serious? Or are you too young to take thought of to-morrow?"
"I am always planning for to-morrow, am I not, Pani? And if it rains I do not mind, but go the same, except that it is not always safe on the river, which sometimes seems as if the giant monster of the deep was sailing about in it."
"There is another kind of seriousness, my child, and a thought of the future that is not mere pleasure. You will outgrow this gay childhood. You may even find it necessary to go to some other country. There may be friends awaiting you that you know nothing of now. You would no doubt like to have them pleased with you, proud of you. And for this and true living you need some training. You must learn to read, to speak English, and you will find great pleasure in it. Then you will enjoy talking to older people. You see you will be older yourself."