Now:  what put this 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 wouldn’t.

[The VICAR ponders this for a moment.]

AUNTIE.  Now, is it God with you or with me, William?

[For a moment this unnerves him.  Then setting his teeth together, he faces his task stubbornly.]