somewhere, must have need of me, or I could not be, Something I felt I
belonged to and that belonged to me, Something that was as much a part
of me as I of It. The feeling came back to me more than once during
my childhood, though I could never put it into words. Years later the
son of the Portuguese Jew explained to me my thought. But all that I
myself could have told was that in that moment I knew for the first
time that I lived, that I was I.

The next instant all was dark again, and I once more a puzzled little
boy, sitting by a nursery fire, asking of a village dame questions
concerning life.

Suddenly a new thought came to me, or rather the recollection of an
old.

"Nurse, why haven't we got a husband?"

Mrs. Fursey left off her sewing, and stared at me.

"What maggot has the child got into its head now?" was her
observation; "who hasn't got a husband?"

"Why, mamma."

"Don't talk nonsense, Master Paul; you know your mamma has got a
husband."

"No, she ain't."

"And don't contradict. Your mamma's husband is your papa, who lives