"No, Miss Louisa," answered Sissy, "father knows very little indeed. But
he said mother was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She
was"--Sissy made the terrible communication, nervously--"she was a
dancer. We travelled about the country. Father's a"--Sissy whispered the
awful word--"a clown."
"To make the people laugh?" said Louisa with a nod of intelligence.
"Yes." But they wouldn't laugh sometimes. Lately they very often
wouldn't, and he used to come home despairing.
I tried to comfort him the best I could, and father said I did. I used
to read to him to cheer up his courage, and he was very fond of that.
Often and often of a night, he used to forget all his troubles in
wondering whether the Sultan would let the lady go on with her story, or
would have her head cut off before it was finished."
"And your father was always kind?" asked Louisa.
"Always, always!" returned Sissy, clasping her hands. "Kinder and kinder
than I can tell. He was angry only one night, and that was not at me,
but Merrylegs, his performing dog. After he beat the dog, he lay down
crying on the floor with him in his arms, and the dog licked his face."
Louisa saw that she was sobbing, and going to her, kissed her, took her
hand, and sat down beside her.
"Finish by telling me how your father left you, Sissy. The blame of
telling the story, if there is any blame, is mine, not yours."
"Dear Miss Louisa," said Sissy, sobbing yet; "I came home from the
school that afternoon, and found poor father just come home too, from
the booth.
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