The noise she made excited the curiosity of the young ladies in the dancing-room: they looked out to see what was the matter.
"Oh, 'tis the wee-wee French prisoner boy, with the bee orchises for us--there, I see him standing in the hall," cried Clara Hope, and instantly she ran, followed by several of her companions, into the hall.
"You see that they are not bees," said Mrs. Porett to Betty Williams, as she took several of the flowers in her hand. Betty, half convinced, yet half afraid, moved a few steps into the hall.
"You have no cause for dread," said Clara Hope; "poor boy, he has nought in his basket that can hurt any body."
Betty Williams's heavy foot was now set upon the train of Clara's gown, and, as the young lady sprang forwards, her gown, which was of thin muslin, was torn so as to excite the commiseration of all her young companions.
"What a terrible rent! and her best gown!" said they. "Poor Clara Hope!"
"Pless us! peg pardon, miss!" cried the awkward, terrified Betty; "peg pardon, miss!"
"Pardon's granted," said Clara; and whilst her companions stretched out her train, deploring the length and breadth of her misfortune, she went on speaking to the little French boy. "Poor wee boy! 'tis a sad thing to be in a strange country, far away from one's ane ane kin and happy hame--poor wee thing," said she, slipping some money into his hand.
"What a heavenly countenance!" thought Angelina, as she looked at Clara Hope: "Oh, that my Araminta may resemble her!"
"Plait il--take vat you vant--tank you," said the little boy, offering to Clara Hope his basket of flowers, and a small box of trinkets, which he held in his hand.
"Here's a many pretty toys--who'll buy?" cried Clara, turning to her companions.
The young ladies crowded round the box and the basket.
"Is he in distress?" said Angelina; "perhaps I can be of some use to him!" and she put her hand into her pocket, to feel for her purse.
"He's a very honest, industrious little boy," said Mrs. Porett, "and he supports his parents by his active ingenuity."
"And, Louis, is your father sick still?" continued Clara Hope to the poor boy.
"Bien malade! bien malade! very sick! very sick!" said he. The unaffected language of real feeling and benevolence is easily understood, and is never ridiculous; even in the broken English of little Louis, and the broad Scotch tone of Clara, it was both intelligible and agreeable.