“It is a lovely day for the middle of March,” she said faintly, as she usually now spoke.
“Yes, a very lovely day.”
“If the weather keeps on like this we might soon go to Goblin Hall.”
“Yes, dear. And the Hall is such a great, roomy house that I wish I could fill it up with visitors.”
“Oh, no; only you and me and my poor little fool.”
“I did not mean strangers, dear, but friends. Now, have you no friends or relations that you would like to have with you? I could easily invite them to come and visit you there; and it would be so pleasant, not only for you and for them, but, most of all, for me.”
“How good you are! Oh! you are an angel! But, no, I have no one in the whole world belonging to me, that I know of, except my grandmother, old Madam Arbuthnot, of Arbuthnot, in Scotland; and she never saw me, nor I her. She must be over seventy years old now.”
“How is it that you never saw her?”
“Oh, she cast my mother off for marrying an actor. My mother was her only child, and she cast her off for marrying my father, who was a play actor, because, you see, she was not only of a very high family, and very proud of her descent, but she was a member of the Church of Scotland, and very strict in her religion.”
“Ah!” said Roma, revolving some curious questions in her own mind, but giving them no utterance.