"Then, for the second time, she wept in our presence, and, with her eyes
full of tears, she said, hesitatingly:

"'Oh! If you only knew, if you only knew ... what a grief it is ... what
a grief it is to me ... I shall never get over it.' 'Over what, little
Fly?' 'Over having killed it, for I did kill it! Oh! Without intending
to! Oh! how grieved I am!...'

"She was sobbing, and we stood round, deeply touched, but without knowing
what to say, and she went on: 'Have you seen it?' And we replied with
one voice: 'Yes.' 'It was a boy, was it not?' 'Yes.' 'Beautiful, was it
not?' We hesitated a good deal, but Petit-Bleu, who was less scrupulous
than the rest of us, made up his mind to affirm it, and said: 'Very
beautiful.'

"He committed a mistake, however, for she began to sob, and almost to
scream with grief, and Only-One-Eye, who perhaps loved her more than the
rest of us did, had a happy thought. Kissing her eyes, that were dimmed
with tears, he said: 'Console yourself, little Fly, console yourself; we
will make another for you.'

"Her innate sense of the ridiculous was suddenly excited, and
half-convinced, and half-joking, still tearful and her heart sore with
grief, she said, looking at us all: 'Do you really mean it?' And we
replied all at once:

"'We really mean it.'"