“Laura, you do not look so cheerful this evening.  What makes my daughter so sad?”

I could not tell her of that scene I had witnessed; I could not tell her of what was wrong.

On the morning following this, to me, horrible day, I could not help seeing that there was quite a new understanding between my father and Miss Reinhart.  I overheard him say to her: 

“It would have been quite impossible to have gone on; the whole country would have been in an uproar.”

All that day there seemed to me something mysterious going on in the house; the servants went about with puzzled faces; there were whisperings and consultations.  I heard Patience say to Emma: 

“It is not true.  I would not believe it.  It is some foolish exaggeration of the servants.  I am sure it is not true.”

“Even if it should be I do not know what we could do,” said Emma.  “We cannot prevent it.  If he has a mind to do such a bad action, he will do it, if not at one time, surely at another.”

What was it?  I never asked questions now.

One thing I remember.  When I went into his room that evening to say good-night, my father’s traveling flask lay there—­a pretty silver flask that my mother had given him for a birthday present.  He bade me “good-night,” and I little thought when or how we should meet again.

CHAPTER XII.

I do not judge or condemn him.  I do not even say what I should say if he were any other than my father.  His sin was unpardonable; perhaps his temptation was great; I cannot tell.  The Great Judge knows best.  I will tell my miserable story just as it happened.

The day following—­another bright, sunny, warm morning, all sunshine, song and perfume, the birds singing so sweetly and the fair earth laughing.  It was so bright and beautiful that when I went out into the grounds my troubles seemed to fade away.  I hastened to gather some flowers for my mother; the mignonette was in bloom, and that was her favorite flower.  I took them to her, and we talked for a few minutes about the beauty of the day.  She seemed somewhat better, and asked me to get through my studies quickly, so that we might go through the grounds.  I hastened to the school-room.  Miss Reinhart was not there.  I took my books and sat down by the window waiting for her.  As I sat there, one after another the servants looked in the room, as though in search of something, then vanished.  At last I grew tired of waiting, and rang to ask if Miss Reinhart was coming to give me my lessons.  Emma came in reply.

Miss Reinhart would not be there yet, she said, and it would be better for me to go out now with my lady and to attend to my books afterward.

It struck me that every one seemed in a hurry to get us out of the house.  Patience King was not to be seen, and Emma did not like to come near us because of her tear-stained face.  Just as we were leaving the house my mother turned to the footman, who was at the back of her chair: