Mr. Dinsmore was seated at his desk with a pile of papers before him—­legal documents in appearance; he would open one, glance over its contents, lay it aside, and take up another only to treat it in like manner.

Elsie stood but a moment watching him with loving, admiring eyes, then gliding noiselessly across the floor, dropped gracefully at his feet and laying her folded hands upon his knee looked up into his face with an arch, sweet smile.

“Mon pere, I have come for my lecture, or whatever you have laid up in store for me,” she announced with mock gravity and a slight tremble of pretended fear in her voice.

Dropping the paper he held, and passing one hand caressingly over her shining hair, “My darling, how very, very lovely you are!” he said, the words bursting spontaneously from his lips; “there is no flaw in your beauty, and your face beams with happiness.”

“Papa turned flatterer!” she cried, springing up and allowing him to draw her to his knee.

“I’m waiting for the lecture,” she said presently, “you know I always like to have disagreeable things over as soon as possible.”

“Who told you there was to be a lecture?”

“Nobody, sir.”

“What have you been doing that you feel entitles you to one?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Nor I either.  So let us to business.  Here, take this chair beside me.  Do you know how much you are worth?”

“Not precisely, sir,” she answered demurely, taking the chair and folding her hands pensively in her lap; “but very little, I presume, since you have given me away for nothing.”

“By no means,” he said, with a slight smile of amusement at her unwonted mood.  “It was for your own happiness, which is no trifle in my esteem.  But you belong to me still.”

She looked at him with glistening eyes.  “Thank you, dearest papa; yes, I do belong to you and always shall.  Please excuse my wilful misunderstanding of your query.  I do not know how much money and other property I own, but have an idea it is a million more or less.”

“My dear child!—­it is fully three times that.”

“Papa! is it indeed?”

“Yes, it was about a million at the time of your Grandfather Grayson’s death, and has increased very much during your mamma’s minority and yours; which you know has been a very long one.  You own several stores and a dwelling house in New Orleans, a fine plantation with between two and three hundred negroes, and I have invested largely for you in stocks of various kinds both in your own country and in England.  I wish you to examine all the papers, certificates of stock, bonds, deeds, mortgages, and so forth.”

“Oh, papa!” she cried, lifting her hands in dismay, “what a task.  Please excuse me.  You know all about it, and is not that sufficient?”

“No, the property is yours; I have been only your steward, and must now render up an account to you for the way in which I have handled your property.”