"Milly!" he repeated, in a grave sorrowful tone. "Nurse, please take baby into the next room. I must talk to my little girl alone."
Gently he drew the naughty child into his arms, and placed her on his knee, beside the fire.
"Milly has made papa's heart very sore to-day; she has quite forgotten Sunday night."
"No, I haven't, papa."
"I see dark heavy clouds and streaming rain on my little girl's face, but no smiling sunshine. I hope it will come soon."
"I wanted to go out," she began; but a bad fit of coughing prevented the end of the sentence.
"Do you want to be in bed again, Milly, and have more biting mustard on your chest? Remember, the doctor said if you were not a great deal better, you could not go downstairs to see the Christmas tree to-night. I think I must tell nurse to undress you and put you to bed again."
"No, no, please not, papa!" pleaded the little invalid, with her arms clinging about his neck. "I have been very naughty; but I am good again now. I don't like being ill at all."
"Do you like being miserable, Milly?"
"No!"