"I hate the world!" cried Pam. "The world is so cruel."
"Poor little girl!" said her father wistfully, though he smiled at the same time.
"Pam," he said suddenly, "is there—is there anyone else?"
"There isn't," sobbed Pam, "and if there was, I wouldn't tell you."
"I only asked, Pam, because I thought I might be able to help you."
"No one can help me," cried Pam, "except by letting me alone."
"Very well, then," said her father patiently. "I'll let you alone. Only dry your eyes, and be comforted. I'm afraid you'll have to wash your face, Pam. You've been flooding my old tattered Euripides with your tears, and you've carried off half the dust from him. There, child, be comforted. I won't say another word about Glengall. He's just like myself, poor fellow, only anxious to take care of you. Sure, I know you're a child, and ought to have your freedom for years yet."
"I wish her mother were here now," said Mr. Graydon, as he closed the door behind his daughter.
He looked up at the pure and innocent face of his wife's portrait.
"I wish I had your wisdom, darling," he muttered. "It is so hard for a man to deal with little girls. And, ah! what they lost when you went to heaven!"