Elsie had just left the room a moment before the remark was made.

Mr. Dinsmore started slightly.

“I believe she is a little pale,” he replied in a tone of annoyance; “but as she makes no complaint, I do not think there can be anything seriously amiss.”

“Perhaps not,” said the lady indifferently; “but if she were my child I should be afraid she was going into a decline.”

“Really, Mrs. Grey, I don’t know what should put such a notion into your head!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore, “for I assure you Elsie has always been a perfectly healthy child since I have known her.”

“Ah! well; it was but the thought of a moment,” replied Mrs. Grey, rising to take leave, “and I am glad to hear there is no ground for fear, for Elsie is certainly a very sweet little girl.”

Mr. Dinsmore handed Mrs. Grey to her carriage, and re-entering the house went into the little back parlor where Elsie, the only other occupant of the room, sat reading, in the corner of the sofa.

He did not speak to her, but began pacing back and forth across the floor.  Mrs. Grey’s words had alarmed him; he could not forget them, and whenever in his walk his face was turned towards his child, he bent his eyes upon her with a keen, searching gaze; and he was surprised that he had not before noticed how thin, and pale, and careworn that little face had grown.

“Elsie,” he said suddenly, pausing in his walk.

The child started and colored, as she raised her eyes from the book to his face, asking, in a half tremulous tone, “What, papa?”

“Put down your book and come to me,” he replied, seating himself.

His tone lacked its usual harshness, yet the little girl came to him trembling so that she could scarcely stand.

It displeased him.

“Elsie,” he said, as he took her hand and drew her in between his knees, “why do you always start and change color when I speak to you? and why are you trembling now as if you were venturing into the lion’s jaws?—­are you afraid of me?—­speak!”

“Yes, papa,” she replied, the tears rolling down her cheeks, “you always speak so sternly to me now, that I cannot help feeling frightened.”

“Well, I didn’t intend to be stern this time,” he said more gently than he had spoken to her for a long while; “but tell me, my daughter, are you quite well?—­you are growing very pale and thin, and I want to know if anything ails you.”

“Nothing, papa, but—­” the rest of her sentence was lost in a burst of tears.

“But what?” he asked almost kindly.

“Oh, papa! you know!  I want your love. How can I live without it?”

“You need not, Elsie,” he answered very gravely, “you have only to bow that stubborn will of yours, to have all the love and all the caresses you can ask for.”

Wiping her eyes, she looked up beseechingly into his face, asking, in pleading tones, “Dear papa, won’t you give me one kiss—­just one?  Think how long I have been without one.”