"When I love you so much, dear child?" she pleaded, bending down
until her lips were close to his averted face.

"How that great spotted cat stares at me!" he suddenly said.
"Do you think it will kill me?"

"No, no, he only wants to play with you. Will you not even look at me,
Martin?"

He still resisted her, but her hand felt very warm and
comforting--it was such a large, warm, protecting hand. So pleasant
did it feel that after a little while he began to move his hand up
her beautiful, soft, white arm until it touched her hair. For her
hair was unbound and loose; it was dark, and finer than the finest
spun silk, and fell all over her shoulders and down her back to the
stone she sat on. He let his fingers stray in and out among it; and
it felt like the soft, warm down that lines a little bird's nest to
his skin. Finally, he touched her neck and allowed his hand to rest
there, it was such a soft, warm neck. At length, but reluctantly,
for his little rebellious heart was not yet wholly subdued, he
raised his eyes to her face. Oh, how beautiful she was! Her love and
eager desire to win him had flushed her clear olive skin with rich
red colour; out of her sweet red lips, half parted, came her warm
breath on his cheek, more fragrant than wild flowers; and her large
dark eyes were gazing down into his with such a tenderness in them
that Martin, seeing it, felt a strange little shudder pass through
him, and scarcely knew whether to think it pleasant or painful.
"Dear child, I love you so much," she spoke, "will you not call me
mother?"