morning; but there was nothing clear. It only came clear a few
minutes ago--just before I went into the garden. But I think it
must have begun quite early--before breakfast, when I was talking
to my--to Manson,

AUNTIE. Manson! . . .

MARY. And then, all of a sudden, as I was sitting there by the
fireplace, _it came_--all in a flash, you understand! I found
myself wishing for my father: wondering why I had never seen him:
despising myself that I had never thought of him before.

VICAR. Well, what then?

MARY. I tried to picture him to myself. I imagined all that he
must be. I thought of you. Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and
of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my
life; but still--that wasn't quite like a father, was it? I
thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in
the world! He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be
good! I kept on saying it over and over to myself like a little
song: he must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good!
[Anxiously.] That's true of fathers, isn't it, uncle? Isn't it?

VICAR. A father ought to be all these things.

MARY. And then . . . then . . .

VICAR. Yes? . . .