“Then how divinely long it all may seem,” he answered. “But can we not begin to think, and to make plans for to-morrow, and the next day, and for the years before us? That will make more time for us, for with the present we shall have the future, too. No--that is foolish again. And yet it is so hard to say which I would have. Shall the moment linger because it is so sweet? Or shall it be gone quickly, because the next is to be sweeter still? Love, where is your father?” Unorna started. The question was suggested, perhaps, by his inclination to speak of what was to be done, but it fell suddenly upon her ears, as a peal of thunder when the sky has no clouds. Must she lie now, or break the spell? One word, at least, she could yet speak with truth. “Dead.” “Dead!” the Wanderer repeated, thoughtfully and with a faint surprise. “Is it long ago, beloved?” he asked presently, in a subdued tone as though fearing to wake some painful memory. “Yes,” she answered. The great doubt was taking her heart in its strong hands now and tearing it, and twisting it. “And whose house is this in which I have found you, darling? Was it his?” “It is mine,” Unorna said. How long would he ask questions to which she could find true answers? What question would come next? There were so many he might ask and few to which she could reply so truthfully even in that narrow sense of truth which found its only meaning in a whim of chance. But for a moment he asked nothing more. “Not mine,” she said. “It is yours. You cannot take me and yet call anything mine.” “Ours, then, beloved. What does it matter? So he died long ago--poor man! And yet, it seems but a little while since some one told me--but that was a mistake, of course. He did not know. How many years may it be, dear one? I see you still wear mourning for him.” “No--that was but a fancy--to-day. He died--he died more than two years ago.” She bent her head. It was but a poor attempt at truth, a miserable lying truth to deceive herself with, but it seemed better than to lie the whole truth outright, and say that her father--Beatrice’s father--had been dead but just a week. The blood burned in her face. Brave natures, good and bad alike, hate falsehood, not for its wickedness, perhaps, but for its cowardice. She could do things as bad, far worse. She could lay her hand upon the forehead of a sleeping man and inspire in him a deep, unchangeable belief in something utterly untrue; but now, as it was, she was ashamed and hid her face. “It is strange,” he said, “how little men know of each other’s lives or deaths. They told me he was alive last year. But it has hurt you to speak of it. Forgive me, dear, it was thoughtless of me.” He tried to lift her head, but she held it obstinately down. “Have I pained you, Beatrice?” he asked, forgetting to call her by the other name that was so new to him. “No--oh, no!” she exclaimed without looking up. “What is it then?”