"My fran', a hummingbird has de pas-sione'--de ecstacie! One drop of blood
wid the pas-sione in it"--He waved his hand with a jerk of the thumb in
disdain of spoken words, and it was I who added,

"Is bigger than the sun?"

"Hah!" was all he uttered in approval, turning as if to go to work. I
feared I had disappointed him.

"God measures by the soul, not by the size," I suggested. But he would say
no more, and his wife put in as softly as a kettle beginning to sing,

"Ah, ha, ha! I t'ink dass where de good God show varrie good sanse."

I began looking here and there in heartiest admiration of the products of
his art and presently we were again in full sympathy and talking eagerly.
As I was going he touched my arm:

"You will say de soul is parted from dat lill' bird. And--yass; but"--he
let a gesture speak the rest.

"I know," replied I; "you propose to make the soul seem to come back and
leave us its portrait. I believe you will." Whereupon he gave me his
first, faint smile, and detained me with another touch.

"Msieu Smeet; when you was bawn?"

"I? December 9, 1844. Why do you ask?"