CHAPTER II
HERO'S STORY
Late that afternoon the Major sat out in the shady courtyard of the
hotel, where vines, potted plants, and a fountain made a cool green
garden spot. He was thinking of his little daughter, who had been dead
many long years. The American child, whom his dog had rescued from the
runaway in the morning, was wonderfully like her. She had the same fair
hair, he thought, that had been his little Christine's great beauty; the
same delicate, wild-rose pink in her cheeks, the same mischievous smile
dimpling her laughing face. But Christine's eyes had not been a starry
hazel like the Little Colonel's. They were blue as the flax-flowers she
used to gather--thirty, was it? No, forty years ago.
As he counted the years, the thought came to him like a pain that he was
an old, old man now, all alone in the world, save for a dog, and a niece
whom he scarcely knew and seldom saw.
As he sat there with his head bowed down, dreaming over his past, the
Little Colonel came out into the courtyard. She had dressed early and
gone down to the reading-room to wait until her mother was ready for
dinner, but catching sight of the Major through the long glass doors,
she laid down her book. The lonely expression of his furrowed face, the
bowed head, and the empty sleeve appealed to her strongly.
"I believe I'll go out and talk to him," she thought.
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