He relapsed into silence, and for some moments neither of them spoke.

He was passing his hand caressingly over her hair, and she resting in his arms and gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

“What is my little one thinking of?” he asked at last.

“I was thinking what a very naughty girl I have been this afternoon, and what a dear, kind papa I have,” she said, looking up lovingly into his face.  “You were so kind, papa, not to punish me as I deserved.  I was afraid you would send me directly to bed, and I should miss my pleasant evening with you.”

“I hope, my darling,” he answered gently, “that you do not think, when I punish you, it is from anything like a feeling of revenge, or because I take pleasure in giving you pain?  Not at all.  I do it for your own good—­and in this instance, as I thought you were sorry enough for having grieved and displeased me to keep you from repeating the offence, I did not consider any further punishment necessary.  But perhaps I was mistaken, and it was only fear of punishment that caused your tears,” he added, looking keenly at her.

“Oh, no, papa! no indeed!” she exclaimed earnestly, the tears rushing into her eyes again; “it is worse than any punishment to know that I have grieved and displeased you, because I love you so very, very dearly!” and the little arm crept round his neck again, and the soft cheek was laid to his.

“I know it, darling,” he said, “I fully believe that you would prefer any physical suffering to the pain of my displeasure.”

“Papa,” she said, after a few moments’ silence, “I want to tell you something.”

“Well, daughter, I am ready to listen,” he answered pleasantly; “what is it?”

“I was looking in my desk to-day, papa, for a letter that I wrote to you the evening before I was taken sick, and I couldn’t find it.  Did Aunt Adelaide give it to you?”

“Yes, dear, I have it, and one of your curls,” he said, pressing her closer to him.

“Yes, papa, that was what I wanted to tell you about.  I am afraid I was very naughty to cut it off after all you said about it last Christmas; but everything was so strange that night—­it seems like a dreadful dream to me now.  I don’t think I was quite in my right mind sometimes, and I thought I was going to die, and something seemed to tell me that you would want some of my hair when I was gone, and that nobody would save it for you; and so I cut it off myself.  You do not mind about it, papa, dear, do you?  You don’t think it was very naughty in me?” she asked anxiously.

“No, darling, no; it was very right and kind, and much more than I deserved,” he answered with emotion.

“I am glad you are not angry, papa,” she said in a relieved tone, “and, indeed, I did not mean to be naughty or disobedient.”

John was just bringing in the lights, and Mr. Dinsmore took a note from his pocket, saying, “I will read this to you, daughter, as it concerns you as well as myself.”