I could not help laughing. “Why not?” I asked. “Oh, ’cause you seem just like people in books, not like real live folks. Seems as if you oughter just sail round with peeple waitin’ on you and never have any every-day thoughts and feelin’s.” “I assure you we are very human,” I said drily, “and perhaps we feel both joy and sorrow more keenly than you do. There is every reason why we should.” “But I’ll bet you never called your parents mommer and popper.” Of course I laughed again. “No, because those musical endearments do not happen to be customary in my country. I do not remember calling my mother anything, for she died when I was two years old. But we both called my father Dad.” She gasped, “Naw, you didn’t. You never called a dook Dad.” “Oh, but we did,” I exclaimed, glowing as certain memories rose; “and when he used to come home from long tiring sessions in the Upper House, or Cabinet meetings--he was a very conscientious legislator, and had held more than one position of great responsibility--he loved to lie down on the floor, and let us run all over him. It was my brother’s delight to polish Dad’s boots with his toothbrush, and I used to barber him with my doll’s scissors. When we got too big for all that he gave us even more of his time, every hour he could spare; he even helped tutor us, and he never went to the continent without us. While we were studying he never went at all, and during our holidays--which were usually his own--he either took us travelling or lived in the country with us. He adored us and we adored him.” “My! Well, I don’t know as I ever seen any farmer make such a fuss over his kids as that, but farmers are terrible busy.” “So was my father, but he knew the exact value of everything in life, and that is the reason he made so much of love.” This was beyond her, and she merely remarked: “I suppose you took on terrible when he died.” “I didn’t ‘take on,’ but no words ever can express my misery.” “And do you have other kinds of trouble too? Do your fellers ever go back on you? I don’t mean _you_; I guess you ain’t in any danger of havin’ your heart broke; but I mean other grand ladies with titles? Do they ever get left like us common folks.” “I have known a good many to ‘get left,’” I replied, smiling at certain reminiscences, “Human nature is pretty much the same in all spheres--more so, perhaps in ours, where people have so much flung at their feet that fickleness is a natural consequence.” “I guess men is fickle everywhere. I know several that has gone back on real nice girls just because they seen another girl they liked better. I’d _hate_ to get left! My!” “You speak for your sex,” I said. “I have known many who looked indifferent, but I never knew one who was.”