But now she sighed a little, and, turning her head away, laughed very sweet and low—­and sighed again.

“Were you expecting me?”

“I—­I think I was—­that is—­I—­I don’t know!” I stammered.

“Then you were not—­very surprised to see me?”

“No.”

“And you are not—­very sorry to see me?”

“No.”

“And—­are you not very—­glad to see me?

“Yes.”

Here there fell a silence between us, yet a silence that was full of leafy stirrings, soft night noises, and the languorous murmur of the brook.  Presently Charmian reached out a hand, broke off a twig of willow and began to turn it round and round in her white fingers, while I sought vainly for something to say.

“When I went away this morning,” she began at last, looking down at the twig, “I didn’t think I should ever come back again.”

“No, I—­I supposed not,” said I awkwardly.

“But, you see, I had no money.”

“No money?”

“Not a penny.  It was not until I had walked a long, long way, and was very tired, and terribly hungry, that I found I hadn’t enough to buy even a crust of bread.”

“And there was three pounds, fifteen shillings, and sixpence in Donald’s old shoe,” said I.

“Sevenpence!” she corrected.

“Sevenpence?” said I, in some surprise.

“Three pounds, fifteen shillings, and sevenpence.  I counted it.”

“Oh!” said I.

She nodded.  “And in the other I found a small, very curiously shaped piece of wood.”

“Ah—­yes, I’ve been looking for that all the week.  You see, when I made my table, by some miscalculation, one leg persisted in coming out shorter than the others, which necessitated its being shored up by a book until I made that block.”

“Mr. Peter Vibart’s Virgil book!” she said, nodding to the twig.

“Y-e-s!” said I, somewhat disconcerted.

“It was a pity to use a book,” she went on, still very, intent upon the twig, “even if that book does belong to a man with such a name as Peter Vibart.”

Now presently, seeing I was silent, she stole a glance at me, and looking, laughed.

“But,” she continued more seriously, “this has nothing to do with you, of course, nor me, for that matter, and I was trying to tell you how hungry—­how hatefully hungry I was, and I couldn’t beg, could I, and so—­and so I—­I—­”

“You came back,” said I.

“I came back.”

“Being hungry.”

“Famishing!”

“Three pounds, fifteen shillings, and—­sevenpence is not a great sum,” said I, “but perhaps it will enable you to reach your family.”

“I’m afraid not; you see I have no family.”

“Your friends, then.”

“I have no friends; I am alone in the world.”

“Oh!” said I, and turned to stare down into the brook, for I could think only that she was alone and solitary, even as I, which seemed like an invisible bond between us, drawing us each nearer the other, whereat I felt ridiculously pleased that this should be so.