“But, if men _love_ hares, why—why—” her voice quivered, and her sweet eyes were brimming over with tears. “I’m afraid they _don’t_ love them, dear child.” “All _children_ love them,” Sylvie said. “All ladies love them.” “I’m afraid even _ladies_ go to hunt them, sometimes.” Sylvie shuddered. “Oh, no, not _ladies_!” she earnestly pleaded. “Not Lady Muriel!” “No, _she_ never does, I’m sure—but this is too sad a sight for _you_, dear. Let’s try and find some—” But Sylvie was not satisfied yet. In a hushed, solemn tone, with bowed head and clasped hands, she put her final question. “Does God love hares?” “Yes!” I said. “I’m _sure_ He does! He loves every living thing. Even sinful _men_. How much more the animals, that cannot sin!” “I don’t know what ‘sin’ means,” said Sylvie. And I didn’t try to explain it. “Come, my child,” I said, trying to lead her away. “Wish good-bye to the poor hare, and come and look for blackberries.” “Good-bye, poor hare!” Sylvie obediently repeated, looking over her shoulder at it as we turned away. And then, all in a moment, her self-command gave way. Pulling her hand out of mine, she ran back to where the dead hare was lying, and flung herself down at its side in such an agony of grief as I could hardly have believed possible in so young a child. “Oh, my darling, my darling!” she moaned, over and over again. “And God meant your life to be so beautiful!” Sometimes, but always keeping her face hidden on the ground, she would reach out one little hand, to stroke the poor dead thing, and then once more bury her face in her hands, and sob as if her heart would break. [Illustration: THE DEAD HARE] I was afraid she would really make herself ill: still I thought it best to let her weep away the first sharp agony of grief: and, after a few minutes, the sobbing gradually ceased, and Sylvie rose to her feet, and looked calmly at me, though tears were still streaming down her cheeks. I did not dare to speak again, just yet; but simply held out my hand to her, that we might quit the melancholy spot. “Yes, I’ll come now,” she said. Very reverently she kneeled down, and kissed the dead hare; then rose and gave me her hand, and we moved on in silence. A child’s sorrow is violent, but short; and it was almost in her usual voice that she said, after a minute, “Oh stop, stop! Here are some _lovely_ blackberries!” We filled our hands with fruit, and returned in all haste to where the Professor and Bruno were seated on a bank, awaiting our return. Just before we came within hearing-distance, Sylvie checked me. “Please don’t tell _Bruno_ about the hare!” she said. “Very well, my child. But why not?” Tears again glittered in those sweet eyes, and she turned her head away, so that I could scarcely hear her reply. “He’s—he’s very _fond_ of gentle creatures, you know. And he’d—he’d be so sorry! I don’t want him to be made sorry.”