11    


AT THE SLEEPY village the noon was still like a sunny midnight when my holidays came to their end.

        My little girl of four had followed me all the morning from room to room, watching my preparations in grave silence, till, wearied, she sat by the door-post strangely quiet, murmuring to herself, 'Father must not go!'

        This was the meal hour, when sleep daily overcame her, but her mother had forgotten her and the child was too unhappy to complain.

        At last, when I stretched out my arms to her to say farewell, she never moved, but sadly looking at me said, 'Father, you must not go!'

        And it amused me to tears to think how this little child dared to fight the giant world of necessity with no other resource than those few words, 'Father, you must not go!'