Uriel Acosta sat at dinner with little Daniel, feasting his eyes on the
fresh beauty of the boy, whose prattle had made the last two days
delightful. Daniel had been greatly exercised to find that his great
big uncle could not talk Dutch, and that he must talk Portuguese--which
was still kept up in families--to be understood. He had hitherto
imagined that grown-up people knew everything. Pedro, his black face
agrin with delight, waited solicitously upon the little fellow.
He changed his meat plate now, and helped him lavishly to tart.
"Cream?" said Uriel, tendering the jug.
"No, no!" cried Daniel, with a look of horror and a violent movement
of repulsion.
Uriel chuckled. "What! Little boys not like cream! We shall find cats
shuddering at milk next." And pouring the contents of the jug lavishly
over his own triangle of tart, he went on with his meal.
But little Daniel was staring at him with awe struck vision,
forgetting to eat.
"Uncle," he cried at last, "thou art not a Jew."