So I ate it, and she watched me with as tender a solicitude as any mother might have done. “You should eat too,” I urged. But she shook her head. “I’d rather watch you,” she remarked, “for you need it and I don’t.” “Do you never eat for the pleasure of eating?” I asked. “Oh, yes, sometimes. Sometimes when father comes home and we have just finished a meal, we all begin again. And then I forget I’ve had anything before and eat just twice as much—at least mother says so, and she knows everything.” “And who is your father?” I asked. “He is my father,” she answered, glancing at me. “He carried you here on a fearful stormy night just lately. And he was very tired, though he is very, very strong, and mother made some food for strengthening him, because he had not been home for a long, long time, and in the wilderness there is very little to be had. Afterwards they went away together, and left me here to look after you, and father said I might sing to you and kiss you, and that would make you well again. Our friends used to come in to watch you too, and we never left you quite alone. Then mother came back, and she kissed me and took me on her knee and cried a little, and I cried also because she did; and then she kissed me again and laughed, and so did I, and she was happy, very, very happy, and said that father was coming home soon and would be able to stay a while.” As she spoke her eyes shone into mine with a pure radiance. “I love for him to come home,” she said. “I love for us all to be together;” and suddenly she put her arms round my neck and nestled towards me with a sigh from which even childhood could not drive all the lingering sadness. “Well, well,” I assured her, “he will be home soon. Think of all the nice times you will have together.” But this form of solace was cut short by her mother coming to the door. She carried in her hand a steaming bowl of something which was like milk, but this I did not notice till she brought it forward and drew attention to it. To behold her was in itself enough for me. She wore a simple robe of pale soft green with no ornament, but she needed none. A figure more brilliantly light and beautiful I never saw, nor a face more perfect in expression and in shape. Yet I do not think it was her beauty that ever impressed my mind, it was the tender grace and motherly sweetness which went with her. One could not be ill nor spiritless where such a being moved, her health and lightness were infectious. “Sunbeam will be happy now,” she said as she came forward. “Chatterboxes always like companions.” And she sat down beside us and gave the basin into my hand. “Indeed, yes,” I went on. “In this short time I have become acquainted with my past history from a certain fall up to the present, and that was very interesting naturally.” “You are looking wonderfully well after your long sleep,” she said.