“I don’t think so.” “Where is your father?” she questioned suddenly. “I don’t think I ever had one,” I answered. “Not a father? But whom does your mother live with?” “I have no mother.” “No mother? Oh, dear!” and she turned her head away and dashed away a tear. But I laughed, the sympathy was so unexpected and, I thought, unnecessary. “You need not cry about it. Never having known them I have never missed them.” “Yes, you have,” she cried, and with a sudden vehemence quite out of keeping with her looks. “When you have no father nor mother there’s a big blank, though you may try to think there isn’t.” “What do you know about it?” said I, still laughing. “I know,” she replied, looking up, “because I know a lot of things in a way. But,” she added after a pause, “you may have mine if you like.” “But,” I went on, “they would scarcely love me as they love you, and might not want to have such an increase in their family.” “They would love you,” she asserted, taking my hand in hers, “just as much as they love me. And I should be your sister, and you would have no end of friends.” “Do friends mean happiness?” “Yes, they mean more love.” “Not more expense?” “I never heard the word before, not in connection with a friend,” and thus our conversation ended. CHAPTER III Virginius soon returned, and with him his wife, whose name I learned soon afterwards was Ursula. But where had gone that coldness, that almost taciturn manner, and the sternness that had seemed to me his most especial characteristics when on earth? Even that silence, which once in a fit of anger I had termed contemptible, had vanished. Far away from earth and all its unreal glamour and the false shade thrown on the Power of Goodness, he was a different spirit. Like Plucritus he appeared taller and stronger here, lacking only unnecessary outward show. And Ursula, like Vestné, was attired in a robe of wondrous loveliness and grace, but, unlike her, her brightness was infectious. The meal was the gayest I had ever had, the food the most delicious, and from it I rose strengthened, lightened and refreshed, to an extent that hitherto had appeared impossible. Sunbeam’s tea-cake had disappeared, for all had had a share of it. In appearance it had been very plain, but I think if any confectioner on the earth had learnt the recipe he would have made a fortune and supplied even the most epicurean king. “Now,” said Virginius, after we had left the table, and gathered round the fire, “I have two presents, one for Sunbeam, and one for you, Genius,” and he brought two small packets from a pocket and handed one to each of us. “Do you receive nothing, mother?” I asked, for after the first hesitation the sweetest of words slipped out most naturally. She shook her head and smiled.