“And I suppose,” said Rosamond, with a curious touch of resentment in her voice, “that because he had never been like other young people, had never cared for young friends and pleasant times, it did not occur to him that I ought to have them?  Oh, I don’t see how he dared to rob me of my rights,—­of my youth, which could only come once, of all life and pleasure and sunshine!”

“My dear,” said the professor, looking very much startled and shocked, “he had no thought of robbing you:  he loved you far too tenderly for that.  You always seemed happy and bright, and you were very young when he died.  No doubt, had he lived until you were of an age to enter society—­”

But here she interrupted him with bitter self-reproaches.

“Oh, what have I said?” she cried.  “He was all goodness, all love to me, and I have dared to find fault with him!  Oh, what a base, wicked girl I am!”

A choking sob stopped her, but only one.  She conquered the rest, and made a forlorn attempt to change the subject.

“I had something to tell you to-night, dear child,” said the professor, when she was quiet again:  “you seem tired, so I will make it as brief as possible.”

A startled look came into her eyes, and she was about to speak, when he continued: 

“Let me first say what is upon my mind, and then you shall have your turn.  I wished to tell you that I think we—­I—­have made a mistake.  I am too confirmed an old bachelor to fall into home ways and make a good husband.  I shall always love you as a dear young daughter, I shall ask you to let me take in every way your father’s place, but I think, if you will let me off, that we will not have that wedding on the 30th of June, my little girl.”

She raised her eyes in wondering incredulity to his face.  He was smiling!  He was speaking playfully!  He was giving her back her freedom with a light heart and a good will.  Plainly, the relief would be as great for him as for her.  Laughing and crying in a breath, she clasped her arms about his neck.

“Ah, how good you are!  How I love you now!” she said, as soon as she could speak.  “All the time we have been engaged,—­yes, even before,—­from the first I have longed to tell you that I would so much rather be your daughter than your wife; but I thought it would be so ungracious, after all your kindness to me. Now we shall be happy; you will see how happy I shall make you.  And, oh, how good, how noble you are to tell me, when, if you had not spoken,—­yes, I should have married you, dear father.  I shall always call you father now:  papa will not mind it, I know.”

The professor had nothing more to do or say after that until he rose to go.  But when she held up her glowing, sparkling face for his good-night kiss, he once more parted the curls and kissed her on her forehead, whereat she pouted a little, saying, with half-pretended displeasure, “Papa didn’t kiss my forehead:  he kissed me right.”