Little Wonder looked these things, she may indeed have thought them; but all she said was:  “O mother, what was that?”

“That was a rabbit, dear.  See, there is another!  See his fluffy white tail!”

And again:  “O mother, what was that?”

“That was a water-hen, dear.  She has a little house, a warm nest, close to the water among the bushes yonder, and she calls like that to let her little children know she’s coming home with some dainty things for lunch.  She means ’Hush!  Hush!  Don’t be frightened.  I’m coming just as fast as I can.’”

“Funny little mother!  What pretty stories you tell me.  But do the birds really talk—­Oh, but look, little mother, there’s Daddy—­”

It was Antony, deep in some dream of Silencieux.

“Daddy!  Daddy!” cried the little girl.

He took her tenderly by the hand.

“Daddy, where have you been all this long time?  You have brought me no flowers for ever so long.”

“Flowers, little Wonder—­they are nearly all gone away, gone to sleep till next year—­But see, I will gather you something prettier than flowers.”

And, hardly marking Beatrice, he led Wonder up and down among the winding underwood.  Fungi of exquisite yellows and browns were popping up all about the wood.  He gathered some of the most delicate, and put them into the fresh small hands.

“But, Daddy, I mustn’t eat them, must I?”

“No, dear—­they are too beautiful to eat.  You must just look at them and love them, like flowers.”

“But they are not flowers, Daddy.  They don’t smell like flowers.  I would rather have flowers, Daddy.”

“But there are no flowers till next year.  You must learn to love these too, little Wonder; they are more beautiful than flowers.”

“Oh, no, Daddy, they are not—­”

“Antony,” said Beatrice, “how strange you are!  Would you poison her?  See, dear,” (turning to Wonder) “Daddy is only teasing.  Let us throw them away.  They are nasty, nasty things.  Promise me never to gather them, won’t you, Wonder?”

“Yes, mother.  I don’t like them.  They frighten me.”

Antony turned into a by-path with a strange laugh, and was lost to them in the wood.

CHAPTER VII

THE LOVERS OF SILENCIEUX

Silencieux often spoke to Antony now.  Sometimes a sudden, startling word when he was writing late at night; sometimes long tender talks; once a terrible whisper.  But all this time she never opened her eyes.  The lashes still lay wet upon her cheeks, and when she spoke her lips seemed hardly to move, only to smile with a deeper meaning, an intenser life.  Indeed, at these times, her face shone with so great a brightness that Antony’s vision was dazzled, and to his gaze she seemed almost featureless as a star.

Once he had begged to see her eyes.

“You know not what you ask,” she had answered.  “When you see my eyes you will die.  Some day, Antony, you shall see my eyes.  But not yet.  You have much to do for me yet.  There is yet much love for you and me before the end.”