This halt at Frankfort was taken on their way home, and its impressions were kept the more actively vibrating in him by the duty of caring for Mirah’s welfare. That question about his parentage, which if he had not both inwardly and outwardly shaken it off as trivial, would have seemed a threat rather than a promise of revelation, and reinforced his anxiety as to the effect of finding Mirah’s relatives and his resolve to proceed with caution. If he made any unpleasant discovery, was he bound to a disclosure that might cast a new net of trouble around her? He had written to Mrs. Meyrick to announce his visit at four o’clock, and he found Mirah seated at work with only Mrs. Meyrick and Mab, the open piano, and all the glorious company of engravings. The dainty neatness of her hair and dress, the glow of tranquil happiness in a face where a painter need have changed nothing if he had wanted to put it in front of the host singing “peace on earth and good will to men,” made a contrast to his first vision of her that was delightful to Deronda’s eyes. Mirah herself was thinking of it, and immediately on their greeting said, “See how different I am from the miserable creature by the river! all because you found me and brought me to the very best.” “It was my good chance to find you,” said Deronda. “Any other man would have been glad to do what I did.” “That is not the right way to be thinking about it,” said Mirah, shaking her head with decisive gravity, “I think of what really was. It was you, and not another, who found me and were good to me.” “I agree with Mirah,” said Mrs. Meyrick. “Saint Anybody is a bad saint to pray to.” “Besides, Anybody could not have brought me to you,” said Mirah, smiling at Mrs. Meyrick. “And I would rather be with you than with any one else in the world except my mother. I wonder if ever a poor little bird, that was lost and could not fly, was taken and put into a warm nest where was a mother and sisters who took to it so that everything came naturally, as if it had been always there. I hardly thought before that the world could ever be as happy and without fear as it is to me now.” She looked meditative a moment, and then said, “sometimes I am a _little_ afraid.” “What is it you are afraid of?” said Deronda with anxiety. “That when I am turning at the corner of a street I may meet my father. It seems dreadful that I should be afraid of meeting him. That is my only sorrow,” said Mirah, plaintively. “It is surely not very probable,” said Deronda, wishing that it were less so; then, not to let the opportunity escape—“Would it be a great grief to you now if you were never to meet your mother?”