Joyce stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. The little fellow had
spoken in English. "Oh, you must be Jules," she cried. "Aren't you? I've
been wanting to find you for ever so long."
[Illustration: "HE CAME TOWARDS HER WITH A DAZED EXPRESSION ON HIS
FACE."]
The boy seemed frightened, and did not answer, only looked at her with
big, troubled eyes. Thinking that she had made a mistake, that she
had not heard aright, Joyce spoke in French. He answered her timidly.
She had not been mistaken; he was Jules; he had been asleep, he told
her, and when he heard her singing, he thought it was his mother calling
him as she used to do, and had started up expecting to see her at last.
Where was she? Did mademoiselle know her? Surely she must if she
knew the song.
It was on the tip of Joyce's tongue to tell him that everybody knew that
song; that it was as familiar to the children at home as the chirping of
crickets on the hearth or the sight of dandelions in the spring-time.
But some instinct warned her not to say it. She was glad afterwards,
when she found that it was sacred to him, woven in as it was with his
one beautiful memory of a home. It was all he had, and the few words
that Joyce's singing had startled from him were all that he remembered
of his mother's speech.
If Joyce had happened upon him in any other way, it is doubtful if their
acquaintance would have grown very rapidly.
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