In this instance it was hardly the eyes themselves, but rather the way they looked at him, and the sweep of the long lashes, together with a firm shutting together of the lips, which struck Mr.St.Claire as familiar, and when with a swift movement of her little hand, she swept the mass of golden hair back from her forehead, he would have sworn that he had seen that trick a thousand times, and yet he could not place it.

That she was the child of the dead woman he believed, and as the mother was French, so also was she.

He had once passed two years in France, and was master of the language; so he spoke to the child in French, but though she seemed to understand him she made no reply, until he said to her: 'Where is your mother, little one ?' 'Then she answered, promptly, 'Dead,' but the language was German, not French.
'Ho-ho! You are a little Dutchman,' Mr.St.Claire said, with some surprise in his voice.
Then as he noted the purity of her complexion, her fair hair and blue eyes, he said to himself: 'Her father was a German, and probably they lived in Germany, but the mother was certainly French.' His own knowledge of German was very limited, but he could speak it a little, and turning again to the child he managed to say: 'What is your name!' 'Der-ree,' was the reply, and Harold exclaimed: 'That's it; she means Jerry; that's short for the name on her clothes, which you said was pronounced Jereen.

I have christened her Jerry, and she is my little girl, ain't you, Jerry!' 'Yah--oui--'ess,' was the answer, and there was a gleam of triumph in the blue eyes which flashed up to Harold for approbation.
She had not, of course, understood a word he said, except, indeed her name; but the tone of his voice was interrogatory, and seemed to expect an affirmative answer, which she gave in three languages, emphasizing the ''ess' with a nod of her head, as if greatly pleased with herself.
'Bravo!' Harold shouted.

'She can say yes.