Then, moving up to them, she perceived the menagerie--for it had grown to one--on Wharton's knee.
"You didn't guess I had such tricks," he said, smiling.
"But they are so good--so artistic!" She took up a little galloping horse he had just fashioned and wondered at it.
"A great-aunt taught me--she was a genius--I follow her at a long distance.

Will you let me go, young man?
You may keep all of them." But the child, with a sudden contraction of the brow, flung a tiny stick-like arm round his neck, pressing hard, and looking at him.

There was a red spot in each wasted cheek, and his eyes were wide and happy.
Wharton returned the look with one of quiet scrutiny--the scrutiny of the doctor or the philosopher.

On Marcella's quick sense the contrast of the two heads impressed itself--the delicate youth of Wharton's with its clustering curls--the sunken contours and the helpless suffering of the other.

Then Wharton kissed the little fellow, put his animals carefully on to a chair beside him, and set him down.
They walked along the snowy street again, in a different relation to each other.