“Alice, you are a little too bad. I know what a very good girl you are; but still you ought to try to think. When you were only two years old, you looked as if you were always thinking.”
“So I am now, papa; always thinking—how to please you, and do my best.”
Sir Roland was beaten by this, because he knew the perfect truth of it. Alice already thought too much about everything she could think of. Her father knew how bad it is when the bright young time is clouded over with unreasonable cares; and often he had sore misgivings, lest he might be keeping his pet child too much alone. But she only laughed whenever he offered to find her new companions, and said that her cousins at the rectory were enough for her.
“If you please, papa,” she now broke in upon his thinking, “how long will it be before you begin to tell me this beautiful story?”
“My own darling, I forgot; I was thinking of you, and not of any trumpery stories. But this is the very day of all days to sift our little mystery. You have often heard, of course, about our old astrologer.”
“Of course I have, papa—of course! And with all my heart I love him. Everything the shepherds tell me shows how thoroughly good he was.”
“Very well, then, all my story is about him, and his deeds.”
“Oh, papa, then do try, for once in your life, to be in a hurry. I do love everything about him; and I have heard so many things.”
“No doubt you have, my dear; but perhaps of a somewhat fabulous order. His mind, or his manners, or appearance, or at any rate something seems to have left a lasting impression upon the simple folk hereabout.”