Myra was busy with her gold-fish, laughing and coquetting with them through the waves. She saw nothing but their golden flash, she heard nothing but the light drops, that dimpled and clouded the water around them. Thus for several minutes the proud and saddened man stood gazing upon his daughter.
She saw him at last; and then with a faint cry the little creature cast away the contents of her frock, and sprang up. Half in joy, half in timid surprise, she stood gazing upon his face. The pupils of her eyes dilated till they were almost black, her white arms seemed trembling with restraint, as if the suddenness of his appearance had checked the first quick impulse. She was only waiting for one smile to spring like a bird to his bosom.
“Myra!”
The firm voice of Daniel Clark gave way as he uttered the name of his child. His eyes grew dim with tears, and he reached forth his trembling arms. She sprang with a single bound to his embrace, she wreathed his neck strongly with her arms, and pressed upon his lips, his cheeks, and his moist eyes, kisses that, from the lips of a beautiful child, seem like the pouring of dew and sunshine from the cup of a flower.
“Oh, you are come again!” she said, placing her warm hands on each side his face, and looking with the smiling confidence of childhood into his eyes. “They told me that you would not come to see us any more for a long, long time.”
“And are you glad to see me, darling?” said Mr. Clark, drawing his hand caressingly down the disheveled brightness of her hair. “You seem glad, my little Myra?”
“Seem—why—I am glad—so very, very glad, my own, own—” the child hesitated.
“Papa—will you not call me papa, this once?” said the agitated father, and upon his pale cheek there came a flush, as he said this to the child.
“Oh, but they tell me that you are my godfather, and that is not a papa, you know,” said the child, shaking her head with an air of pretty thoughtfulness.
“Perhaps it is as well,” murmured the father, and his look grew sad.