“No, she didn’t come.”

“So I see,” he answered.  And there was such a hurt, sorry look away back in his eyes.  But right away he smiled, and said:  “But you came!  I’ve got you.”

Then he began to talk and tell stories, just as if I was a young lady to be entertained.  And he took me over to where they had things to eat, and just heaped my plate with chicken patties and sandwiches and olives and pink-and-white frosted cakes and ice-cream (not all at once, of course, but in order).  And I had a perfectly beautiful time.  And Father seemed to like it pretty well.  But after a while he grew sober again, and his eyes began to rove all around the room.

He took me to a little seat in the corner then, and we sat down and began to talk—­only Father didn’t talk much.  He just listened to what I said, and his eyes grew deeper and darker and sadder, and they didn’t rove around so much, after a time, but just stared fixedly at nothing, away out across the room.  By and by he stirred and drew a long sigh, and said, almost under his breath: 

“It was just such another night as this.”

And of course, I asked what was—­and then I knew, almost before he had told me.

“That I first saw your mother, my dear.”

“Oh, yes, I know!” I cried, eager to tell him that I did know.  “And she must have looked lovely in that perfectly beautiful blue silk dress all silver lace.”

He turned and stared at me.

“How did you know that?” he demanded.

“I saw it.”

“You saw it!”

“Yesterday, yes—­the dress,” I nodded.

“But how could you?” he asked, frowning, and looking so surprised.  “Why, that dress must be—­seventeen years old, or more.”

I nodded again, and I suppose I did look pleased:  it’s such fun to have a secret, you know, and watch folks guess and wonder.  And I kept him guessing and wondering for quite a while.  Then, of course, I told him that it was upstairs in Grandfather’s trunk-room; that Mother had got it out, and I saw it.

“But, what—­was your mother doing with that dress?” he asked then, looking even more puzzled and mystified.

And then suddenly I thought and remembered that Mother was crying.  And, of course, she wouldn’t want Father to know she was crying over it—­that dress she had worn when he first met her long ago! (I don’t think women ever want men to know such things, do you?  I know I shouldn’t!) So I didn’t tell.  I just kind of tossed it off, and mumbled something about her looking it over; and I was going to say something else, but I saw that Father wasn’t listening.  He had begun to talk again, softly, as if to himself.

“I suppose to-night, seeing you, and all this, brought it back to me so vividly.”  Then he turned and looked at me.  “You are very like your mother to-night, dear.”

“I suppose I am, maybe, when I’m Marie,” I nodded.