"The person! That means Miss Snowe, I suppose?"
"No, papa—not Lucy."
"Who then? Perhaps Mrs. Bretton?"
"No, papa—not Mrs. Bretton."
"Who then, my little daughter? Tell papa the truth."
"Oh, papa!" she cried with earnestness, "I will—I will tell you the truth—all the truth; I am glad to tell you—glad, though I tremble."
She did tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and also gathering courage, shook her.
"I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love you above everything but God. Read the letter; look at the address."
She laid it on his knee. He took it up and read it through; his hand shaking, his eyes glistening meantime.
He re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournful amaze.
"Can she write so—the little thing that stood at my knee but yesterday? Can she feel so?"
"Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?"
"There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it pains me."
