I was silent, pondering. Daddy was charming; there never was his like, but he did say puzzling things.

"Now," he said, looking full at me, "what do you think I have come to England for?"

I shook my head. When I did not know a thing I invariably shook my head.

"I have come on your account," he replied.

"On mine, Daddy?"

"Yes. I am going back again to India in a short time."

"Oh, what fun!" I answered. "I love being on board ship."

He did not reply at all to this.

"Why don't you speak?" I said, giving his grizzled locks a lusty tug.

"I am thinking," was his answer.

"Well, think aloud," I said.

"I am thinking about you, Heather. Have you ever by any chance heard of a lady called Aunt Penelope?"

"Never," I answered. "Aunt Penelope—Aunt Penelope—what is an aunt, Daddy?"

"Well, there is an Aunt Penelope waiting to see you in old England, and I am going to take you down to her to-morrow. She is your aunt—listen—think hard, Heather—use your brains—because she is your mother's sister."

"Oh!" I answered. "Does that make an aunt?"

"Yes, that makes an aunt; or if she were your father's sister she would also be your aunt."

I tried to digest this piece of information as best I could.

"I am taking you to her to-morrow, and you must learn to love her as though she were your mother."

I shook my head.

"I can't," I said.

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