She had not mentioned her own letter, but at length Edward, noting the brightness of her countenance, asked, “Good news from the captain, Vi?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said; “he was well and seemingly in excellent spirits at the time of writing, though he says he misses wife and children sorely.”

All three of his children turned toward her with eager, questioning looks, Max and Lulu asking, “Didn’t papa write to us, too?”

“He sends you a message, dears,” Violet said.  “I have not really read the letter yet, but shall do so after supper, and you shall all surely have your share of it.”

On leaving the table they followed her to the door of her boudoir.

“May we come in, Mamma Vi?” Max asked, with a wistful look.

“Certainly,” she answered in a pleasant tone, though longing to be quite alone while giving her precious letter its first perusal; “I would have you feel as free to come into my apartments as I always have felt to go into mamma’s.  Sit down and make yourselves comfortable, dears, and you shall hear presently what your papa says.

“The letter was written on shipboard, brought into New York by another vessel and there mailed to me.”

Max politely drew up a chair near the light for Violet, another for Lulu, placed Gracie’s own little rocker close to her mamma’s side, then stood behind it prepared to give close attention to the reading of his father’s letter.

Violet omitted a little here and there—­expressions of tender affection for herself, or something else evidently intended for her eye alone.  The captain wrote delightful letters; at least they were such in the esteem of his wife and children.  This one provoked to both laughter and tears, he had so amusing a way of relating trivial incidents, and some passages were so tenderly affectionate.

But something near the close brought an anxious, troubled look to Max’s face, a frown to Lulu’s brow.

It was this:  “Tell Max and Lulu I wish each of them to keep a diary for my inspection, writing down every evening what have been the doings and happenings of the day as regards themselves—­their studies, their pleasures, their conduct also.  Max telling of himself, Lulu of herself, just as they would if sitting on my knee and answering the questions, ’What have you been busy about to-day?  Have you been attentive to your studies, respectful and obedient to those in charge of you?  Have you tried to do your duty toward God and man?’

“They need not show any one at Ion what they write.  I shall trust to their truthfulness and honesty not to represent themselves as better than they are, not to hide their faults from the father who cares to know of them, only that he may help his dear children to live right and be happy.  Ah, if they but knew how I love them! and how it grieves and troubles me when they go astray!”

Max’s face brightened at those closing sentences, Lulu’s softened for a moment, but then, as Violet folded the letter, “I don’t want to!” she burst out.  “Why does papa say we must do such things?”