"They say he was unkind to my mother, and that that was one of the reasons why she died so early."
"Then you never wish you could have seen and known your father?"
"How can I? If he wasn't good to my poor mother, why should I think he would have been good to me? But see, your supper is ready. Grandma will bring the coffee presently; won't you begin with the meat, sir?"
He sat down to the table but his hunger was gone. For a moment he almost wished himself back in the black night from which he had come. The girl's simple words had been ringing the death-knell of his expectations. He had left her all these years to the keeping and care of others--could he expect to come back now and find the affection he had forfeited? Ah no! He had come too late--too late! But just as one part of the plan he had formed for himself was becoming vague and shadowy a gleam of new light was shot into his brain, and his heart rose with a bound.
"Didn't grandma call you Christian Christiansson?" asked the girl.
"Yes," he answered. "Ever hear that name before, my child?"
The girl turned to him with a face glowing with excitement and said, "Everybody in Iceland has heard it, sir. It is the same as the name of the great composer who lives in England."
A deafening tumult of joy was rising within him, and he said, "So you--you have heard of him, have you?"
"I sing his songs, sir. They are beautiful! I think they are the most beautiful songs in the world. Would you like me to sing one of them while you eat your supper?"
"Will you?"