"He is so glad you have come home. Darling, go to your father."
But the child began to cry and hid himself at his mother's feet.
"Why is he crying?" asked I, in perplexity, and looked around, "why are you all so pale and silent, following me like shadows?"
My brother burst into a loud laugh and said, "We are not silent."
And my sister said, "We are talking the whole time."
"I will go and see about the supper," said my mother, and hurriedly left the room.
"Yes, you are silent," I repeated, with sudden conviction. "Since morning I have not heard a word from you; I am the only one who chats, laughs, and makes merry. Are you not glad to see me then? And why do you all avoid looking at me? Have I changed so? Yes, I am changed. But I do not see any looking-glasses about. Have you put them all away? Give me a looking-glass."
"I will bring you one directly," answered my wife, and did not come back for a long time, and the looking-glass was brought by the maid. I looked into it, and—I had seen myself before in the train, at the station—it was the same face, grown older a little, but the most ordinary face. While they, I believe, expected me to cry out and faint—so glad were they when I asked calmly—
"What is there so unusual in me?"
Laughing louder and louder, my sister left the room
