The glance that Gontran raises from his book to rest upon Séraphine is very gentle. His fair hair, a lock of which he pushes back from his forehead, waves loosely over his temples. He is fifteen years old, and his face, which is still almost girlish, expresses nothing as yet but tenderness and love. “And you?” he says. “It is you who ought to go to bed, you poor old Fine. Last night, you were on your feet nearly the whole time.” “Oh, I’m accustomed to sitting up. And besides I slept during the daytime--but you....” “No, I’m all right. I don’t feel tired; and it does me good to stay here thinking and reading. I knew Papa so little; I think I should forget him altogether if I didn’t take a good look at him now. I will sit beside him till daylight. How long is it, Fine, since you came to us?” “I came the year before you were born, and you’re nearly sixteen.” “Do you remember Mamma quite well?” “Do I remember your Mamma? What a question! You might as well ask me if I remember my own name. To be sure, I remember your Mamma.” “I remember her too--a little.... But not very well.... I was only five when she died. Used Papa to talk to her much?” “It depended on his mood. Your Papa was never a one to talk much, and he didn’t care to be spoken to first. All the same in those days he was a little more talkative than he has been of late.... But there now! What’s past is past, and it’s better not to stir it up again. There’s One above who’s a better judge of these things than we are.” “Do you really think that He concerns Himself about such things, dear Fine?” “Why, if He doesn’t, who should then?” Gontran puts his lips on Séraphine’s red, roughened hand. “You really ought to go to bed now. I promise to wake you as soon as it is light, and then I’ll take my turn to rest. Please!”