The Little Colonel at Boarding-School

by Annie F. Johnston

But now a lull had come in the festivities. The last guest had departed on the evening train, and ten o'clock found the house strangely still. The servants were all out. Betty, locked in her room, busy with embroidery silks, was finishing a little New Year's gift with which to surprise her godmother on the morrow. Mrs. Sherman had gone up-stairs to sit with the old Colonel awhile. She had not been able to give him much of her time since their return to Locust, and to-night, with the waning year, he seemed to want her to himself to talk to him of his "long, long ago," and listen to his tales of old days which grew dearer with each passing holiday season.

Only Lloyd and her father were left in the long drawing-room. She had begged to be allowed to keep Watch-night with him.

"It's only two houahs moah, mothah," she said, beseechingly. "I'll sleep late in the mawning to make up for it. I've scarcely seen Papa Jack since we came home, and he's going away so soon again. Besides, I nevah did sit up to watch a new yeah come in."

So she had her way, and, sitting on a low stool at his feet, with his hand softly stroking her hair, they talked of many things.

He began in a teasing, playful way, "You haven't told me what you learned at boarding-school, Little Colonel. You must have absorbed a vast amount of knowledge, when even your nights were passed in such a learned institution."

The face she turned toward him was a very serious one, for the time had come for confession. Yet after all confession did not seem as hard as she had thought it would be. The very touch of his hand on her hair made it easier, it was so kind and sympathetic. She had always gone to him with all her childish troubles as freely as she had to her mother. Presently she had poured out the whole story, her part in the clandestine correspondence, Edwardo's coming to Locust, her struggle in that very room to be loyal to the family honour and her father's trust in her.

Allison's Christmas present to her had been an autograph copy of the story of "The Three Weavers." It was bound in water-colour paper, tied in the rose and gold ribbons of the Order, and bore on the cover a design of Allison's own painting, a filmy spider-web held by a row of golden stars. Lloyd showed it to him as she told of the forming of the Order of Hildegarde to take the place of the old Shadow Club, and then, spreading the book open across his knee, read it aloud—the little tale which was destined to play such an important part in her life, and which already had influenced her far more than she was aware.

When she had finished she sat idly turning the leaves and gazing into the fire. "You see," she said, presently, "this is a story for fathahs and mothahs, too, and—and—I want you to give me my yah'dstick, Papa Jack."

As she glanced up at him with a roguish smile dimpling her face, she was astonished to see tears in his eyes. He had been very silent while she read the story.

"My precious little Hildegarde!" he exclaimed, drawing her to his knee and folding his arms around her. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he began: "I don't suppose you can understand how I feel about it, Lloyd. It breaks me all up to think that my Little Colonel is near enough grown to come to me with such a request. If I could have my way I would be selfish enough to want to keep you a little girl always. I hate to think that a time can ever come when any one may ask to take you from me. But, Lloyd darling, it takes all the sting out of that thought to know that you are willing to come to me so freely with your questions—to know that there is such perfect confidence between us that you do not feel the embarrassment that most girls feel in talking with their fathers on such a subject. Let me think a moment, for I want to answer as wisely as old Hildgardmar did, if that be possible."