“All very satisfactory, my little friend, was it not?” said Mr. Travilla.

“Yes, sir, very.  I’m so glad to have secured such a man as Mr. Mason to look after the welfare of these poor helpless creatures.  And you like the house, Mr. Travilla, do you not?”

“Very much, so far as I have seen it.  This is a beautiful room, and the dining-room pleased me equally well.”

“Ah, I am eager to show you all!” she cried, rising quickly and laying her hand on the bell-rope.

“Stay, little wife, not to-night,” he said, “you are too much fatigued.”

She glided to the back of the easy chair in which he sat, and leaning over him, said laughingly, “I’m not conscious of being fatigued, but I have promised to obey and——­”

“Hush, hush!” he said flushing, “I meant to have that left out; and did I not tell you you were to have your own way that night and ever after?  You’ve already done enough of obeying to last you a lifetime.  But please come round where I can see you better.”  Then, as she stepped to his side, he threw an arm about her and drew her to his knee.

“But it wasn’t left out,” she said, shyly returning his fond caress; “I promised and must keep my word.”

“Ah, but if you can’t, you can’t; how will you obey when you get no orders?”

“So you don’t mean to give me any?”

“No, indeed; I’m your husband, your friend, your protector, your lover, but not your master.”

“Now, Mr. Travilla——­”

“I asked you to call me Edward.”

“But it seems so disrespectful.”

“More so than to remind me of the disparity of our years? or than to disregard my earnest wish?  Then I think I’ll have to require the keeping of the promise in this one thing.  Say Edward, little wife, and never again call me Mr. Travilla when we are alone.”

“Well, Edward, I will try to obey; and if I use the wrong word through forgetfulness you must please excuse it.  But ah, I remember papa would say that was no excuse.”

“But I shall not be so strict—­unless you forget too often.  I have sometimes thought my friend too hard with his tender-hearted, sensitive little daughter.”

“Don’t blame him—­my dear, dear father!” she said, low and tremulously, her face growing grave and almost sad for the moment.  “He was very strict, it is true, but none too strict in the matter of requiring prompt and implicit obedience, and oh, so kind, so loving, so tender, so sympathizing.  I could, and did go to him with every little childish joy and sorrow, every trouble, vexation, and perplexity; always sure of sympathy, and help, too, if needed.  Never once did he repulse me, or show himself an uninterested listener.

“He would take me on his knee, hear all I had to say, clasp me close to his heart, caress me, call me pet names, joy, sorrow with, or counsel me as the case required, and bid me always come freely to him so, assuring me that nothing which concerned me, one way or another, was too trivial to interest him, and he would be glad to know I had not a thought or feeling concealed from him.  I doubt if even you, my friend, have ever known all that papa has been and is to me:  father, mother, everything—­but husband,” she added with a blush and smile, as her eyes met the kindly, tender look in his.