"It is
wet," he said. He seemed for a moment struggling to grasp the meaning
of moisture in connection with the human eye. Soon his face again became
serene. "The heart," he said, "is a dark well; its depth unknown. I have
lived eighty years. I am still drawing water."
"Draw a little for me, Dad."
This time Mr. Stone looked at his daughter anxiously, and suddenly
spoke, as if afraid that if he waited he might forget.
"You are unhappy!"
Bianca put her face down to his tweed sleeve. "How nice your coat
smells!" she murmured.
"You are unhappy," repeated Mr. Stone.
Bianca dropped his hand, and moved away.
Mr. Stone followed her. "Why?" he said. Then, grasping his brow, he
added: "If it would do you any good, my dear, to hear a page or two, I
could read to you."
Bianca shook her head.
"No; talk to me!"
Mr. Stone answered simply: "I have forgotten."
"You talk to that little girl," murmured Bianca.
Mr. Stone seemed to lose himself in reverie.
"If that is true," he said, following out his thoughts, "it must be
due to the sex instinct not yet quite extinct. It is stated that the
blackcock will dance before his females to a great age, though I have
never seen it."
"If you dance before her," said Bianca, with her face averted, "can't
you even talk to me?"
"I do not dance, my dear," said Mr.
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