Even as I looked, a remote film of mist blotted out the infinitesimal cluster. "And see, beyond the Chair," I went on, laughing, and yet exalted with my theme, "that dim in the Girdle is the Great Nebula—s-sh! And on, on, that chirruping Invisible, that, Fanny, is the Midget. Perhaps you cannot even dream of her: but she watches."
"Never even heard of her," said Fanny good-humouredly, withdrawing the angle of her chin from the Ecliptic.
"Say not so, Horatia," I mocked, "there are more things...."
"Oh, yes, I know all about that. And these cold, monotonous old things really please you? Personally, I'd give the whole meaningless scramble of them for another moon."
"But your old glutton has gobbled up half of them already."
"Then my old glutton can gobble up what's left. Who taught you about them? And why," she scanned me closely, "why did you pick out the faintest; do you see them the best?"
"I picked out the faintest because they were meant especially for me so that I could give them to you. My father taught me a little about them; and your father the rest."
"My father," echoed Fanny, her face suddenly intent.
"His book. Do you miss him? Mine is dead."
"Oh, yes, I miss him," was the serene retort, "and so, I fancy, does mother."