Белая птичка
William Paterson
WeoftenfoundhimwaitingforusattheStory-seat,andthegreatstoutfellowlaughedandweptoverourtaleslikeathree-year-old.Oftenhesaidwithextraordinarypride,“YouaretellingthestorytomequiteasmuchastoDavid,ar’n’tyou?”Hewasofaninnocencesuchasyoushallseldomencounter,andbelievedstoriesatwhichevenDavidblinked.OftenhelookedatmeinquickalarmifDavidsaidthatofcoursethesethingsdidnotreallyhappen,andunabletoresistthatappealIwouldreplythattheyreallydid.IneversawhimirateexceptwhenDavidwasstillsceptical,butthenhewouldsayquitewarningly“Hesaysitistrue,soitmustbetrue.”Thisbringsmetothatoneofhisqualities,whichatoncegratifiedandpainedme,hisadmirationformyself.Hiseyes,whichattimeshadarimofred,wereeverfixeduponmefondlyexceptperhapswhenItoldhimofPorthosandsaidthatdeathalonecouldhavekepthimsolongfrommyside.ThenPaterson’ssympathywassuchthathehadtolookaway.HewasshyofspeakingofhimselfsoIaskedhimnopersonalquestions,butconcludedthathisupbringingmusthavebeenlonely,toaccountforhisignoranceofaffairs,andloveless,elsehowcouldhehavefeltsuchadrawingtome?
Irememberverywellthedaywhenthestrange,andsurelymonstrous,suspicionfirstmademyheadtingle.Wehadbeenblown,thethreeofus,tomyroomsbyagustofrain;itwasalso,Ithink,thefirsttimePatersonhadenteredthem.“Takethesofa,Mr.Paterson,”Isaid,asIdrewachairnearertothefire,andforthemomentmyeyeswereoffhim.
