The two little ones claimed their turn; then Violet and the three went upstairs, leaving the captain and Lucilla alone together.

“Didn’t you say you had some letters to write when you came home, papa?” she asked; “and can’t I help you?”

“I say yes to both questions,” he answered pleasantly.  “Take off your hat and come with me into the library.  But perhaps you are too tired,” he added hastily, as if just struck by the thought.  “If so, daughter, I would not have you exert yourself to do the work now.  It can wait till to-morrow morning.  Or, if I find anything needing an immediate reply, I can attend to it myself, without my little girl’s assistance.”

“But I am not tired, papa, and I dearly love to help you in any and every way that I can,” she answered, smiling up into his eyes.

“I do not doubt it in the least, my child,” he said, laying his hand on her head in tender, fatherly fashion; “and you are a very great help and comfort to me; so much so that I shall be extremely loath ever to let anybody rob me of my dear eldest daughter.”

“I hardly think anybody wants to yet, papa,” she laughed; “nobody seems to set anything like the value upon me that you do.  So you needn’t be in the least afraid of ever being robbed of this one of your treasures.  Ah, papa, it is so nice—­such a happiness to have you esteem me a treasure, and to know that I belong to you.”

“A happiness to me as well as to you, dear child,” he said.  “Well, we will look at the letters and decide whether it is necessary to answer any of them to-night.”

They had entered the library and drawn near the table while they talked.  A pile of letters lay upon it.  He took them up and glanced at the superscription upon each.

“Ah! here is one directed to you, daughter,” he said, “and from someone in this neighborhood; for it is without a stamp.”

“Probably from Maud or Sydney,” she remarked.

“No,” said her father, “the handwriting is evidently that of a man.  Well, you may open it and see who the writer is,” handing it to her as he spoke.

“If you would rather I did not, papa, I do not want to,” she said, not offering to take it.  “Please read it first.”

“I can trust you, daughter, and you have my full permission to read it,” he said in a kindly indulgent tone.

“Thank you, papa; but I really prefer to have you read it first,” she replied.

He smiled approval, broke the seal, and glanced over the missive.

“It is from Chester Dinsmore,” he said; “merely an invitation to you to go with him to a boating party on the river, if your father gives consent.”

“Which I don’t believe my father will,” laughed Lucilla.

“And you are not anxious that he should?” he queried with a smile.

“Not unless he is entirely willing to have me go; and hardly even then, as he is not to be one of the party.”