"I wonder where he wanted her to go?" she said slowly.
I did not answer; for I knew it would pain her to hear her dear old castle described as an "outlandish place."
"And I wonder how he could be angry with her," the child continued, "she was so pretty and had on such a lovely dress!"
"Beauty is not the only thing, and fine dress still less," I urged.
Winifred turned on me with flashing eyes, as though I had cast some reflection upon the phantom evoked from her youth by the presence of familiar scenes.
"But that was my mother!" she cried, as if that silenced every objection. Then she added, more gently: "I am sorry my father was angry with her."
"Yet your father has a noble heart," I declared.
She smiled as if pleased.
"Some day I may see him," she said; "but my mother is dead."
There was great pathos in that simple remark; and after that Winifred, in her usual fashion, turned away altogether from the subject. Just then we came to a point whence we had a distant view of the Wicklow Hills. I called Winifred's attention to them. She gazed at them with tear-dimmed eyes, and I think after that took very little interest in the rest of the landscape.