“But my feet are wet.” She laughed.
He kneeled down and dried her feet on his handkerchief, while she sat tossing his hair with her fingertips. The sunlight grew more and more golden.
“I envy the savages their free feet,” she said.
“There is no broken glass in the wilderness—or there used not to be,” he replied.
As they were crossing the sands, a whole family entered by the cliff track. They descended in single file, unequally, like the theatre: two boys, then a little girl, the father, another girl, then the mother. Last of all trotted the dog, warily, suspicious of the descent. The boys emerged into the bay with a shout; the dog rushed, barking, after them. The little one waited for her father, calling shrilly:
“Tiss can’t fall now, can she, dadda? Shall I put her down?”
“Ay, let her have a run,” said the father.
Very carefully she lowered the kitten which she had carried clasped to her bosom. The mite was bewildered and scared. It turned round pathetically.
“Go on, Tissie; you’re all right,” said the child. “Go on; have a run on the sand.”
The kitten stood dubious and unhappy. Then, perceiving the dog some distance ahead, it scampered after him, a fluffy, scurrying mite. But the dog had already raced into the water. The kitten walked a few steps, turning its small face this way and that, and mewing piteously. It looked extraordinarily tiny as it stood, a fluffy handful, staring away from the noisy water, its thin cry floating over the plash of waves.
Helena glanced at Siegmund, and her eyes were
