Wynne's little terrier, Snap, came barking to meet us.
There was an air of delicious peacefulness about the garden. This
also tended to soften that hardness of temper which only cripples who
have once rejoiced in their strength can possibly know, I hope.
'I like to see you look so,' said the little girl, as I melted
entirely under these sweet influences. 'You looked so cross before
that I was nearly afraid of you.'
And she took hold of my hand, not hesitatingly, but frankly. The
little fingers clasped mine. I looked at them. They were much more
sun-tanned than her face. The little rosy nails were shaped like
filbert nuts.
'Why were you not _quite_ afraid of me?' I asked.
'Because,' said she, 'under the crossness I saw that you had great
love-eyes like Snap's all the while. _I_ saw it!' she said, and
laughed with delight at her great wisdom. Then she said with a sudden
gravity, 'You didn't mean to make my father cry, did you, little
boy?'
'No,' I said.
'And you love him?' said she.
I hesitated, for I had never told a lie in my life.
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