The little girl was looking at him when he awoke.  Like a wild animal, all of him was awake the instant he opened his eyes.  The first he saw was the parasol, strangely obtruded between him and the sky.  He did not start nor move, though his whole body seemed slightly to tense.  His eyes followed down the parasol handle to the tight-clutched little fingers, and along the arm to the child’s face.  Straight and unblinking, he looked into her eyes, and she, returning the look, was chilled and frightened by his glittering eyes, cold and harsh, withal bloodshot, and with no hint in them of the warm humanness she had been accustomed to see and feel in human eyes.  They were the true prison eyes—­the eyes of a man who had learned to talk little, who had forgotten almost how to talk.

“Hello,” he said finally, making no effort to change his position.  “What game are you up to?”

His voice was gruff and husky, and at first it had been harsh; but it had softened queerly in a feeble attempt at forgotten kindliness.

“How do you do?” she said.  “I’m not playing.  The sun was on your face, and mamma says one oughtn’t to sleep in the sun.”

The sweet clearness of her child’s voice was pleasant to him, and he wondered why he had never noticed it in children’s voices before.  He sat up slowly and stared at her.  He felt that he ought to say something, but speech with him was a reluctant thing.

“I hope you slept well,” she said gravely.

“I sure did,” he answered, never taking his eyes from her, amazed at the fairness and delicacy of her.  “How long was you holdin’ that contraption up over me?”

“O-oh,” she debated with herself, “a long, long time.  I thought you would never wake up.”

“And I thought you was a fairy when I first seen you.”

He felt elated at his contribution to the conversation.

“No, not a fairy,” she smiled.

He thrilled in a strange, numb way at the immaculate whiteness of her small even teeth.

“I was just the good Samaritan,” she added.

“I reckon I never heard of that party.”

He was cudgelling his brains to keep the conversation going.  Never having been at close quarters with a child since he was man-grown, he found it difficult.

“What a funny man not to know about the good Samaritan.  Don’t you remember?  A certain man went down to Jericho—­”

“I reckon I’ve been there,” he interrupted.

“I knew you were a traveller!” she cried, clapping her hands.  “Maybe you saw the exact spot.”

“What spot?”

“Why, where he fell among thieves and was left half dead.  And then the good Samaritan went to him, and bound up his wounds, and poured in oil and wine—­was that olive oil, do you think?”

He shook his head slowly.

“I reckon you got me there.  Olive oil is something the dagoes cooks with.  I never heard of it for busted heads.”