Her father was saying to himself he could not have believed the lifting from his soul of such a gravestone of debt, would have made so little difference to his happiness.  He fancied honest Jones, the butcher, had more mere pleasure from the silver snuff-box he had given him, than he had himself from his fortune.  Relieved he certainly was, but the relief was not happiness.  His debt had been the stone that blocked up the gate of Paradise:  the stone was rolled away, but the gate was not therefore open.  He seemed for the first time beginning to understand what he had so often said, and in public too, and had thought he understood, that God Himself, and not any or all of His gifts, is the life of a man.  He had got rid of the dread imagination that God had given him the money in anger, as He had given the Israelites the quails, nor did he find that the possession formed any barrier between him and God:  his danger, now seemed that of forgetting the love of the Giver in his anxiety to spend the gift according to His will.

“You and I ought to be very happy, my love,” he said, as now they were walking home.

He had often said so before, and Dorothy had held her peace; but now, with her eyes on the ground, she rejoined, in a low, rather broken voice,

“Why, papa?”

“Because we are lifted above the anxiety that was crushing us into the very mud,” he answered, with surprise at her question.

“It never troubled me so much as all that,” she answered.  “It is a great relief to see you free from it, father; but otherwise, I can not say that it has made much difference to me.”

“My dear Dorothy,” said the minister, “it is time we should understand each other.  Your state of mind has for a long time troubled me; but while debt lay so heavy upon me, I could give my attention to nothing else.  Why should there be any thing but perfect confidence between a father and daughter who belong to each other alone in all the world?  Tell me what it is that so plainly oppresses you.  What prevents you from opening your heart to me?  You can not doubt my love.”

“Never for one moment, father,” she answered, almost eagerly, pressing to her heart the arm on which she leaned.  “I know I am safe with you because I am yours, and yet somehow I can not get so close to you as I would.  Something comes between us, and prevents me.”

“What is it, my child?  I will do all and every thing I can to remove it.”

“You, dear father!  I don’t believe ever child had such a father.”

“Oh yes, my dear! many have had better fathers, but none better than I hope one day by the grace of God to be to you.  I am a poor creature, Dorothy, but I love you as my own soul.  You are the blessing of my days, and my thoughts brood over you in the night:  it would be in utter content, if I only saw you happy.  If your face were acquainted with smiles, my heart would be acquainted with gladness.”