is thought into your head to-day?

MARY. I don't know. I've been puzzling about something all the
morning; but there was nothing clear. It only came clear a few
minutes ago--just before I went into the garden. But I think it
must have begun quite early--before breakfast, when I was talking
to my--to Manson,

AUNTIE. Manson! . . .

MARY. And then, all of a sudden, as I was sitting there by the
fireplace, _it came_--all in a flash, you understand! I found
myself wishing for my father: wondering why I had never seen him:
despising myself that I had never thought of him before.

VICAR. Well, what then?

MARY. I tried to picture him to myself. I imagined all that he
must be. I thought of you. Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and
of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my
life; but still--that wasn't quite like a father, was it? I
thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in
the world! He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be
good! I kept on saying it over and over to myself like a little
song: he must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good!
[Anxiously.] That's true of fathers, isn't it, uncle? Isn't it?

VICAR. A father ought to be all these things.

MARY. And then . . . then . . .

VICAR. Yes? . . .

MARY. I met a man, a poor miserable man--it still seems like a
dream, the way I met him--and he said something dreadful to me,
something that hurt me terribly. He seemed to think that my
father--that perhaps my father--might be nothing of the sort!

AUNTIE. Why, who was he--the man?

MARY. He wouldn't tell me his name: I mistook him for a thief at
first; but afterwards I felt very, very sorry for him. You see,
his case was rather like my own. _He was wishing for his little
girl_.

[There is a short silence.]

VICAR. Where did you meet with him?

MARY. Here, in this room.

AUNTIE. When was this?

MARY. A few minutes ago--just before you came in.

AUNTIE. Where is he now?

MARY. He said good-bye. He has gone away.

AUNTIE. For good?

MARY. Yes, I think so: I understood him to mean that.

VICAR. Was he--a rough-looking man?

MARY. Dreadfully; and he swore once--but afterwards he said he was
sorry for that.

VICAR. Did he frighten you at all?

MARY. No, not exactly frighten: you see, I felt sorry for him.

VICAR [slowly]. _And he wouldn't tell you his name_? . . .

MARY. No: I asked him, but he w