"No, sir."

"Then dry your eyes with mine."

He tossed his handkerchief to her with one hand, and picked up a
fragment of the broken jug with the other. "This will do for a
pattern," he said to himself. The child stared at the
handkerchief--stared at Alban--took courage--and rubbed
vigorously at her eyes. The instinct, which is worth all the
reason that ever pretended to enlighten mankind--the instinct
that never deceives--told this little ignorant creature that she
had found a friend. She returned the handkerchief in grave
silence. Alban took her up in his arms.

"Your eyes are dry, and your face is fit to be seen," he said.
"Will you give me a kiss?" The child gave him a resolute kiss,
with a smack in it. "Now come and get another jug," he said, as
he put her down. Her red round eyes opened wide in alarm. "Have
you got money enough?" she asked. Alban slapped his pocket. "Yes,
I have," he answered. "That's a good thing," said the child;
"come along."

They went together hand in hand to the village, and bought the
new jug, and had it filled at the beer-shop. The thirsty father
was at the upper end of the fields, where they were making a
drain. Alban carried the jug until they were within sight of the
laborer. "You haven't far to go," he said. "Mind you don't drop
it again--What's the matter now?"