er. He was
quick and alert in his movements, and strong of limb, without a trace
of awkwardness. Nothing took him unawares, and he seemed to think about
everything that he saw.

Marie-Gaston, the other child, had hair that was almost golden, though
a lock here and there had deepened to the mother's chestnut tint.
Marie-Gaston was slender; he had the delicate features and the subtle
grace so charming in Mme. Willemsens. He did not look strong. There was
a gentle look in his gray eyes; his face was pale, there was something
feminine about the child. He still wore his hair in long, wavy curls,
and his mother would not have him give up embroidered collars, and
little jackets fastened with frogs and spindle-shaped buttons; evidently
she took a thoroughly feminine pleasure in the costume, a source of as
much interest to the mother as to the child. The elder boy's plain white
collar, turned down over a closely fitting jacket, made a contrast with
his brother's clothing, but the color and material were the same; the
two brothers were otherwise dressed alike, and looked alike.

No one could see them without feeling touched by the way in which Louis
took care of Marie. There was an almost fatherly look in the older boy's
eyes; and Marie, child though he was, seemed to be full of gratitude to
Louis. They were like two buds, scarcely separated from the stem that
bore them, swayed by the same breeze, lying in the same ray of sunlight;
but the one was a brightly colored flower, the other somewhat bleached
and pale. At a glance, a word, an inflection in their mother's voice,
they grew heedful, turned to look at her and listened, and did at once
what they were bidden, or asked, or recommended to do. Mme. Willemsens
had so accustomed them to understand her wishes and desires, that the
three seemed to have their thoughts in common. When they went for a
walk, and the children, absorbed in their play, ran away to gather
a flower or to look at some insect, she watched them with such deep
tenderness in her eyes, that the most indifferent passer-by would feel
moved, and stop and smile at the children, and give the mother a glance
of friendly greeting. Who would not have admired the dainty neatness of
their dress, their sweet, childish voices, the grace of their movements,
the promise in their faces, the innate something that told of careful
training from the cradle? They seemed as if they had never shed tears
nor wailed like other children.