The excitement of Tiny’s escapade had been got over, and the child was sitting on the carpet in the firelight playing with her doll and singing to herself. She was always singing to herself or to the waxen companion in her arms, which was pale with much exposure to the heat of the fire. Tiny had a little tune which was quite different from the little snatches of song which she picked up from every one--from the butcher’s boy and the postman and the maids in the kitchen, as well as from her mother’s performances. The child was all ear, and sang everything, whatever she heard. But besides all this she had her own little tune, in which she kept singing sometimes the same words over and over again, sometimes her dialogues with her doll, sometimes scraps of what she heard from others, odds and ends of the conversation going on over her head. It was the prettiest domestic scene, the child sitting in front of the fire, in the light of the cheerful blaze, undressing her doll, hushing it in her arms, going through all the baby routine with which she was so familiar, singing, talking, cooing to the imaginary baby in her arms, while the pretty young mother sat at the side of the hearth, with the little table and work-basket overflowing with the fine muslin and bits of lace, making one of Tiny’s pretty frocks or pinafores, which was her chief occupation. Sometimes Tiny’s monologue was broken by a word from her mother; but sewing is a silent occupation when it is pursued by a woman alone, and generally Mrs. Nugent said nothing more than a word from time to time, while the child’s little voice ran on. Was there something wanting to the little bright fireside--the man to come in from his work, the woman’s husband, the child’s father? But it was too small, too feminine a place for a man. One could not have said where he would sit, what he would do--there seemed no place for him, if such a man there had been. Nevertheless a place was made for Mr. Wradisley when he came in, as he did immediately, announced by the smart little maid, carrying his hat in his hand. A chair was got for him out of the glow of the firelight, which affected his eyes. He made a little apology for coming so late. “But I have a liking for the twilight; I love the park in the dusk; and as you have been so good as to let me in once or twice, and in the confidence that when I am intrusive you will send me away--” “If you had come a little sooner,” said Mrs. Nugent, in a frank, full voice, different from her low tones, “you might have taken care of Lucy, who ran in to see me.” “Lucy was well accompanied,” said her brother; “besides, a walk is no walk unless one is alone; and the great pleasure of a conversation, if you will allow me to say so, is doubled when there are but two to talk. I know all Lucy’s opinions, and she,” he said, pausing with a smile, as if there was something ridiculous in the idea, “knows, or at least thinks she knows, mine.”