“You will stay with us, Miss Vernon, I am sure of that.  Take Dawn into the kitchen every day, no matter if she rebels, as I fear she may, and slowly, but thoroughly educate her in all those seemingly minor details of household economy.  Cause her to feel the importance of these things, and teach her to apply herself diligently to labor.  I am not anxious that she should make any exhibition of her mental accomplishments, for I have learned to dislike parlor parades, and the showing off of children’s acquirements.  I do not want Dawn to dazzle with false how, but to be what she seems, and of use to the world.  At the close of each day I shall question her about her studies, and show to her that I am interested not only in her books, but in her domestic attainments.  Supply to her, as well as you can, that material, the want of which is so great a loss to a young girl, and your happiness shall be my study.  Treat her as you would an own dear child, and when she gives you trouble, send her to me.  I fear I may have wearied you, Miss Vernon, and as the day is so fine, had you not better take a walk?”

She was already too anxious to go by herself, and think of the happiness which was about opening for her.  It seemed too much.  All the years that had passed since her dear mother’s death had been so lonely.  No one had ever understood her nature, or seemed to think her anything but a machine to teach the children their daily lessons.  But now what a prospective!  How earnestly would she begin her new life; and burdened with this thought she walked to the edge of a green wood, and sat down to weep tears of pure joy.

When she returned she found her room filled with mosses and trailing vines, which Dawn had gathered for her.  She was rapidly learning to love the child, and felt lonely when she was out of her sight.

In the evening they sat together,—­father, child, and teacher, or companion, as she really was to them, in the library, communing in silence, no word breaking the spell, until Dawn did so by asking Miss Vernon if she played.

She glanced longingly at the beautiful instrument, which had not been opened since Mrs. Wyman’s death, and said,—­

“I do play and sing, but not as well as I hope to with opportunities for practice.”

“Do open the piano, papa, it will spoil shut up so.”

“So it will, Dawn.  I will open it this moment,” and he silently accused himself for keeping it closed so long.

“Do you love music, Dawn?” asked Miss Vernon, “can you sing?”

“You shall hear her, and then judge.  Come, darling, while I play your favorite song;” and he commenced the prelude to a low, sweet air.  She began at first tremulously, but gained confidence at each word, until at length her sweet, childish tones rose pure and clear above the voice of her father, who hummed rather than sang the song in his deep, rich bass.

His eyes were full of tears when they closed, for that hymn was his wife’s favorite.  He had taught it to Dawn, without telling her that her mother ever sung it.