‘Mrs. Forster?’ he repeated. ‘I mean your wife.’ ‘My wife,’ he echoed, in still greater astonishment. ‘I am not married!’ ‘How strange!’ exclaimed Madeline, with raised eyebrows. ‘Not married?’ ‘Why is it so strange?’ asked Forster, with a laugh. ‘You do not look like an old bachelor--no, I don’t mean that; but there is something in your manner which makes one think of a kind wife, and little children, and home. You are not old, and yet I feel as if I could speak to you so freely, and could tell you anything, as I do my dear guardian. Do you understand?’ ‘I think I do--partly,’ answered Forster, not without a certain uneasiness. ‘And that lady whom I saw you with at the theatre on the first night of “Cymbeline”--I thought _she_ was Mrs. Forster.’ ‘That was my sister.’ They walked on for a little in silence. Forster was the first to speak. ‘It is curious, after all, that you should class me among the married people, for the fact is, I am a widower. My poor wife died many years ago, and left me one child, a boy. My sister keeps my house; but when you talk of home, and home ties, I cannot help telling you that I am a very lonely man--quite an old bachelor, indeed, in my way. When, after a long day in the City, I return to my house, and get among my books and pictures, I am still lonely, but sometimes very happy after all.’ A girl less naïve and unsuspicious than Madeline might have been astonished at this fragment of autobiography, coming from such a man, and might have questioned her own fascinations as to the origin of such candour. But Madeline thought it quite natural, as between friend and friend. ‘But let us speak of other things,* continued Forster, after a pause, ‘of yourself. I sometimes think, if you will forgive me for saying so, that you must be rather lonely too.’ ‘No,’ she replied readily; adding with her brightest smile, ‘not while I have Mr. White.’ ‘Ah, he is a good fellow--but you have neither father nor mother.’ Madeline shook her head. ‘They died long ago. I do not remember them.’ ‘Your other relations?’ ‘I have none.’ ‘None?’ ‘When my father died I was left with poor people, who brought me up. Then trouble came, and Uncle Mark died, and I was brought to Mr. White. Uncle Luke brought me. After he went away he used to write me, but at last all letters ceased. Mr. White made inquiries, but he had disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone. Dear Uncle Luke!’ Her voice was broken, and her eyes were full of tears. ‘What made you think of going upon the stage?’