She met that look and understood her father’s love for his only child, and reproached herself for having been so blind to it for these three years past.

“Dearest papa,” she said, with tender earnestness, “I have no longer the slightest wish or intention of ever entering a convent.  And I wonder now how I ever could have been so insane as to think I could live all my life contentedly in a convent, or so selfish as to forget that by doing so I should leave my father alone in the world!”

“My darling child!  Is this truly so?  Are these really your thoughts?” exclaimed the banker, with such a look of delight as Salome had not believed possible in so aged a face.

“Really and truly, my father!  And does it give you so much pleasure?”

“Pleasure my daughter!  It gives me the greatest joy!  Hand me my dressing-gown, my dear.  I must get up.  I cannot lie here any longer.  You have put new life into me!”

Salome handed him his gown, socks, and slippers, and then went to clear off his big easy-chair, which was burdened with his yesterday’s dress suit, and draw it up for his use.

And in a few minutes the banker, wrapped in his gown, with his feet in his slippers, was seated comfortably in his arm-chair.

“Now, shall I ring for Potts, papa, dear?” inquired Salome.

“No, my love, I don’t want Potts, I want you.  Sit down near me, Salome, and listen to me.  You have made me very happy this morning, my darling; and now I wish to make you happy; you are not so now; but I am your father; you are my only child; all that I have will be yours; but in the meantime, you are not happy.  What can I do, my beloved child, to make you so?” said the banker, drawing her to his side and kissing her tenderly, and then releasing her.

“Papa, dear, I should be a most ungrateful daughter if I were not happy,” answered the girl.

“Then you are a very thankless child, my little Salome, for you are very far from happy,” said her father, gravely shaking his head, yet looking so tenderly upon her as to take all rebuke from his words.

Salome dropped her eyes under his searching, loving gaze.

“My child, I know that I have the power to bless you, if you will only tell me how.  Tell me, my dear,” persisted her father.

But still she dropped her eyes and hung her head.

“If your mother were here, you could confide in her.  You cannot confide in your father, my poor, motherless girl, and he cannot blame you,” said Sir Lemuel, sadly.

“Father, dear father, I do love you; and I will confide in you,” said Salome, earnestly.

For just then a mighty power of faith and love arose in her soul, casting out fear, casting out doubt, subduing pride and reserve.

“What is it, then, my love?  Have you formed any attachment of which you have hesitated to tell me?  Hesitate no longer, my dearest Salome.  Tell me all about it.  It is nothing to be ashamed of.  Love is natural.  Love is holy.  Oh, it is your mother that should be telling you all this, my poor girl, not your awkward, blundering old father,” suddenly said the banker, breaking off in his discourse as his daughter hid her crimson face upon his shoulder.