"Well, little girl," he said, "and how are you? Now, if I were an Irishman, I'd say, 'The top of the morning to you, bedad!' but being only a poor, broken-down English soldier, I must wish you the best of good days, my dear, and I do trust, my Heather, that this will prove a very good day for you, indeed." As father spoke he rang a bell, and when the waiter appeared he ordered _table d'hôte_ breakfast, which the man hastened to supply. As we were seated round the board which seemed to me to groan with the luxuries not only of that season, but of every season since cooking came into vogue, father remarked, as he helped himself to a devilled kidney, that really, all things considered, English cooking was _not_ to be despised. "Oh, but it's delicious!" I cried--"at least," I added, "the cooking at a hotel like this is too delicious for anything." "You dear little mite!" said father, smiling into my eyes. "And how did Auntie Pen serve you, darling? What did she give you morning, noon, and night?" I laughed. "Aunt Penelope believed in plain food," I said. "Trust her for that," remarked my father. "I could see at an eye's glance that she was the sort of old lady who'd starve the young." "Oh, no," I answered; "you are quite mistaken. Aunt Penelope never starved me and was never unkind to me. I love her very dearly, and I must ask you, father, please, not to speak against her to me." "Well, I won't, child; I admire loyalty in others. Now then, leave those kidneys and bacon alone. Have some cold tongue. What! you have had enough? Have a kipper, then. No? What a small appetite my little girl has got! At least have some bread and butter and marmalade. No again? Dear, dear--why, the sky must be going to fall! Well, I'll tell you what--we'll have some fruit." "Oh, dad, I should like that," I said. "Your bones are younger than mine, child," remarked the Major; "you must press that bell. Ah! here comes James. James, the very ripest melon you can procure; if you haven't it in the hotel, send out for it. Let us have it here with some powdered ginger and white sugar in less than ten minutes." "Yes, sir," answered the man. He bowed respectfully and withdrew. "What are you staring at, Heather?" asked my father. "You called that man James," I said. "Is that his name?" "Bless you, child, I don't know from Adam what his name is. I generally call all waiters 'James' when I'm in England; most of them are James, so that name as a rule hits the nail on the head. In Germany Fritz is supposed to be the word to say. But now, what are you thinking of? Oh, my little darling, it's I who am glad to have you back!" I left the table, and when James--whose real name I afterwards heard was Edgar--came back, he found me throttling father's neck and pressing my cheek against his. "Where's the charm I gave you, Heather? I trust you have it safe." I pointed with great pride to where it reposed on a little chain which held my tiny watch.