In due time Nansie reappeared, bearing two loose boards which she laid upon a pair of low trestles, spreading over them a white cloth. Upon this improvised table she set a smoking teapot, milk and sugar, and a plate of bread-and-butter, cut reasonably thick. "Tea is ready, father." She ate with an appetite. Her father ate more daintily. Before putting the food into his mouth he cut it into devices of fish and bird, which he then proceeded to slice and carve, evidently adding thereby to his enjoyment of the humble fare. And yet through all, whether he ate or read or mused, there was about him a conspicuous air of melancholy. It was the evening hour, and the season was spring. It was a warmer spring than usual; there was a taste of summer in the air. They ate in silence, until the man remarked: "You did not hear the nightingale last night?" "No, father." "It sang for hours, Nansie." She nodded, and said: "I wish you could sleep as soundly as I do, father." "I used to in my young days, and must be content. I am glad you sleep well. You have other wishes." "Yes," said Nansie, calmly. "You have a fine trick of composure, Nansie. What stirs within does not always find outward expression." "I take after you, father," said Nansie, in an affectionate tone. "I have you to thank for all that is good in me." "It is a pleasant hearing, but it cuts both ways. Do not your other wishes trouble you?" "A little; but everything will come right." "A comfortable philosophy, my dear child; but womanly." "It was mother's," said Nansie. "I caught it from her." "I know; and I could never make the dear mother understand that it was inadequate for the practical purposes of life. Eventually we may be satisfied that everything will come right, but before the end is reached there are many turnings. The mischief of it is"--and there was now in his face as he turned it more fully towards her an expression both whimsical and sad--"that we carpet the turning we wish to take with flowers of fancy which, as we proceed, fade utterly away. That is a human experience." "I am human," said Nansie, and she pressed her young face to his. "I could laugh and I could weep," he said, responding fondly to her caress. "In truth, my dear child, you perplex me." "Or," suggested Nansie, "is it you who are perplexing yourself?" He shrugged his shoulders affectionately, and did not reply.