Una looked up from the wreath with a sad little smile on her face.
"It is funny you should ask me just now," she said; "I was just thinking about it, and wondering if I should tell you."
"'I was just wondering if I should tell you,' said Una."
"Will you tell us, then?" said Tom, as he swung himself off the gate and sat down on the grass by Una's side.
"Father used to tell me about it when he was so ill," said the little girl. "I used to sit in his room, you know, in case he wanted anything; and sometimes I thought he was asleep, and then he would open his eyes all at once and begin to talk to me; and he told me lots and lots of things he had never told me before—about things he had done, I mean, and about my mamma—and——"
A big tear rolled down Una's cheek and splashed on to the bunch of crimson berries she was holding.
"Don't tell us, Una, if you would rather not," said Norah softly.
"Oh, yes," said Una, "I do want to tell you—only I thought of papa then, and just how he used to look. His face looked always so tired, Norah, so very tired; and his voice used to get tired too, and then he would shut his eyes and go to sleep again. But he told me so many things, I don't know where to begin."