"Yes, he did!" flashed Alicia. "Only your life is so much better. He was so absorbed in himself, Alastor, that he died in his loneliness. And you—you are simply surrounded by people who love you. You—!" And then, I regret to record, self-consciousness overtook Alicia. She became aware of her own vehemence and blushing furiously made as if to run out of the room. My position of vantage near the door enabled me to stop her. "Wait, my dear," I endeavored to lift her lowered chin. "Enthusiasm is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s one of the finest things in life. And I’ll tell you more—we are always applying to ourselves everything we read in books." "Isn’t that," murmured Alicia shamefacedly, "why people love books?" Foolish girl—to wake the sleeping pedant in me! "Not altogether, Alicia. When we get older we become less personal. I love books because they hold the truth and the wisdom of men’s minds. And aside from life and love, Alicia, wisdom and truth are the greatest realities in the world. There is death, of course, but who cares to dwell upon death?" "I always did think that life and—and—love were greater than books," stammered Alicia earnestly. "And now that you yourself say so, I am sure of it!" Astonishing child! When has she had the time to speculate upon the magnitude of life and love? Always that young thing keeps revealing herself to me afresh. I looked at her in silence for a moment. Here was a better counselor than any one, Dibdin excepted, with whom I might discuss the impending return of Pendleton. "Alicia," I began in another tone, "there is something I should like to talk to you about. It’s criminally late, I know, and you ought to be in bed, but since you will dissipate on the catalogue, I’ll keep you up a little longer." I led her back to a chair and she gazed at me wide-eyed. "Is it anything about—the—children?" she whispered, somewhat frightened. "Yes—in a way—it is about the children. But more particularly it is about their father. Have you ever heard of him?" "Their father!—I thought he was dead!" she murmured, awe-struck. "There were times when we all thought so. He disappeared some years ago. But he’s alive, Alicia. I’ve just heard from Dibdin, who found him in Japan." Her eyes grew wider. "How terrible!" she breathed. "Does he know all—that has happened?" "He does now—of course he didn’t until Mr. Dibdin told him." And then this occurred to me. Ought I to shield Pendleton to the extent of telling her positively that he had lost his memory or identity? No. A confidant deserves scrupulous honesty, even if that confidant be as young as Alicia. "He told Dibdin," I went on, "that he lost his memory of the past and found himself one day stranded in Manila. Led rather a wild and worthless life afterwards—people who lose their memories seem to do that." "Do you think that’s true?" she queried.