It stood open, and the lamplight falling upon its contents was flashed back from many a costly gem set in rings, brooches, lockets and chains of gold.

She took them up, one by one, gazing upon each for a minute or more with a smile, a sigh, or a falling tear, ere she laid it almost tenderly back in its place.

So absorbed was she in the contemplation of these mementoes of the past and the memories called up by them, that she did not hear an approaching footstep, and deemed herself quite alone, till a hand was laid gently on her head, and a voice said tenderly, “My darling!”

“Dear papa!” she responded, glancing up into his face with tear-dimmed eyes, as he stood at the back of her sofa, bending over her.  “Let me give you a chair,” and she would have risen to do so, but he forced her gently back.

“No; lie still.  I will help myself.”  And coming round in front of her, he seated himself close at her side.

“Why look at these, if it makes you sad, my child?” he asked, noticing her occupation.

“There is sometimes a sweetness in the tears called forth by pleasant memories of loved ones gone before, papa,” she said.  “These anniversaries will recall the dear husband who always remembered his little wife so kindly upon each, and there is a melancholy pleasure in looking over his Christmas gifts, I have them all here, beginning with this—­the very first.  Do you remember it, papa?  And this Christmas day when he gave it to me? the first Christmas that you were with me.”

She was holding up a tiny gold thimble.

“Yes, I think I do,” he said.  “I certainly remember the day, the first Christmas after my return from Europe, the first on which I heard myself addressed as papa—­the sweetest of child voices calling me that, and wishing me a merry Christmas, as the dearest, loveliest of little girls ran into my arms.  Dear daughter, what a priceless treasure you have been to me ever since!” he added, bending over her and softly smoothing her hair.  “It has always been a joy to call you mine.”

She caught his hand in hers and pressed it to her lips.  “Yes, dear, dear father! and to me to be so called.  We loved one another very dearly then, each was all the other had, and I think our mutual love has never been less because of the other many tender ties God has given us since.”

“I am sure you are right, daughter, but at that time,” he added with a smile, “you were not willing to share your father’s love with another; at least with one other whom you suspected of trying to win it.  Do you remember how you slipped away to your bed without bidding your papa good-night, and cried yourself to sleep?”

“Yes, foolish child that I was!” she said, with a low musical laugh; “and how you surprised me the next morning by your knowledge of my fears, and then set them all at rest, like the dear, kind father that you were and always have been.”