I
feared I had disappointed him.
"God measures by the soul, not by the size," I suggested. But he would say
no more, and his wife put in as softly as a kettle beginning to sing,
"Ah, ha, ha! I t'ink dass where de good God show varrie good sanse."
I began looking here and there in heartiest admiration of the products of
his art and presently we were again in full sympathy and talking eagerly.
As I was going he touched my arm:
"You will say de soul is parted from dat lill' bird. And--yass; but"--he
let a gesture speak the rest.
"I know," replied I; "you propose to make the soul seem to come back and
leave us its portrait. I believe you will." Whereupon he gave me his
first, faint smile, and detained me with another touch.
"Msieu Smeet; when you was bawn?"
"I? December 9, 1844. Why do you ask?"
"O nut'n'; only I thing you make me luck; nine, h-eighteen, fawty-fo'--I
play me doze number' in de lott'ree to-day."
"Why, pshaw! you don't play the lottery, do you?"
"Yass. I play her; why not? She make me reech some of doze day'. Win fifty
dollah one time las' year."
The soft voice of the wife spoke up--"And spend it all to the wife of my
dead brother. What use him be reech? I think he don't stoff bird' no
betteh.
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