e 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 passing 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 analyze. 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.

They recognized each other. There was a moment of embarrassment.

Then the farmer, without a word, not a muscle of his face betraying
his emotion, handed over the parcel, turned on his heels and
mounting th