“Why do you laugh?” asked his daughter, whose arm nearly strangled him.  “You were very angry when you came into mamma’s room.”

“Indeed?” said Hamilton, nettled.  “Was I not smiling?”

“Yes, sir; but you often smile when you would like to run the carving-knife into somebody.”

They had reached the library.  Hamilton sat the child on the edge of his table and took a chair closely facing her.  “What do you mean, you little witch?” he demanded.  “I am always happy when I am at home.”

“Almost always.  Sometimes you are very angry, and sometimes you are sad.  Why do you pretend?  Why don’t you tell us?”

“Well,” said Hamilton, with some confusion.  “I love you all very much, you see, and you do make me happy—­why should I worry you?”

“I should feel better if you told me—­right out.  It gives me a pain here.”

She laid her hand to her head, and Hamilton stared at her in deepening perplexity.  Another child—­anything feminine, at least—­would have indicated her heart as the citadel of sorrow.  “Why there?” he asked.  “Do you mean a pain?”

“Yes, a pain, but not so bad as when I am in Albany or Saratoga and you are here.  Then I worry all the time.”

“Do you mean that you are ever unhappy?”

“I am unhappy whenever you are, or I am afraid that you are.  I know that you are very big and the cleverest man in the world, and that I am too little to do you any good, and I don’t know why I worry when I am away.”  “But, my dear child, what in Heaven’s name do you mean?  Have you ever spoken to your mother of this?”

Angelica shook her head.  Her eyes grew larger and wiser.  “No; I should only worry Betsey, and she is always happy.  She is not clever like you and me.”

Hamilton rose abruptly and walked to the window.  When he had composed his features he returned.  “You must not criticise your mother in that way, my dear.  She is a very clever little woman, indeed.”

Angelica nodded.  “If she were clever, you would not say ‘little.’  Nobody says that you are a very clever little man.  When I’m big, I’ll not be called little, either.  I love our dear Queen Bess, but I’m all yours.  Why were you so angry to-day?”

“I couldn’t possibly tell you,” replied her father, turning cold.  “You must not ask too many questions; but I am very grateful for your sympathy.  You are my dear little girl, and you make me love you more and more, daily.”

“And will you tell me whenever you are not feeling like what you are making the rest believe?”

“If it will make you any happier, I will whisper it into your pink little ear.  But I think I should be a very bad father to make you unhappy.”

“I told you, sir, that I am more unhappy when I imagine things.  It is just like a knife,” and again she pointed to her head.