"You tell," she said. "Begin at the beginning, and tell me about your life." "Why, playmate!" His voice had even a sorrowful reproach. "There's nothing in it. Nothing at all. I have only dug in the ground and made things grow." "What people have you known?" "Grannie." "She isn't people." "She's my people. She's all there is, except Peter, and he hasn't been here." Something like jealousy possessed her. She was stung by her own ignorance. "But there are lots of years when we didn't meet," she said. "Lots of them. But I don't care anything about them. I told you so the other night." "Don't you care about mine?" "Not a bit." She was lightheaded with the joy of it. There were things she need not tell him. "Not the years before we met?" Then because she was a woman, she had to spoil the cup. "Nor the years after I go away?" "No, not the years when you've gone away. You can't take this night with you, nor the other night." He had hurt her. "That's enough, then--a memory." Osmond laughed a little. It was a tender sound, as if he might scold her, but not meaning it. "You mustn't be naughty," he said. "There's nothing naughtier in a playhouse than saying what isn't true. You know if you go away you'll come back again. You can't help it. It may be a long time first. You were twenty-five years in coming this time. But you'll have to come. You know that, don't you?" "Yes," she said gravely, "I know that." Then the memory of her wandering life and the sore straits of it voiced itself in one cry, "I don't want to go. I want to stay." "Stay, dear playmate," said the other voice. "There never will be a night when I'm not here. Is the playhouse key in your hand, all tight and warm? I wear mine round my neck. We shan't lose them." Immediately she felt that she must tell him her new trouble. "My father is coming here," she said, in a low tone. "Ah!" he answered quickly. "You won't like that." "How do you know?" "From what you said the other night. You don't like him." "Is it dreadful to you, if I don't like my father?" She put it anxiously, with timidity, and he answered,-- "It's inevitable. He hasn't treated you well." She was staring at him through the darkness, though she could see nothing. "You are a wizard," she said, "a wizard. Why do you say he has not treated me well?" "Because I see how you hate him. You would never hate without reason. You are all gentleness. You know you are. You'd go on your knees to the man that was your father, and beg him to be good enough so you could love him. And if you couldn't--George! that settles him. Why, playmate, you're not crying!" She was crying softly to herself. But for a little unconsidered sniff he need not have known it. "I like to cry," she said, in a moment. "I like to cry--like this." "It's awful," said the other voice, apparently to itself, "to make you cry and not know how to stop you. Don't do it, playmate!" She laughed then.