"I'm afraid not, my dear," he said then. "It would take more than a flower or a bonbon to to win your mother back now, I fear."
"But you could try," I urged.
He shook his head again.
"She wouldn't see me—if I called, my dear," he answered.
He sighed as he said it, and I sighed, too. And for a minute I didn't say anything. Of course, if she wouldn't see him—
Then another idea came to me.
"But, Father, if she would see you—I mean, if you got a chance, you would tell her what you told me just now; about—about its being your fault, I mean, and the spirit of youth beating against the bars, and all that. You would, wouldn't you?"
He didn't say anything, not anything, for such a long time I thought he hadn't heard me. Then, with a queer, quick drawing-in of his breath, he said:
"I think—little girl—if—if I ever got the chance I would say—a great deal more than I said to you to-night."
"Good!" I just crowed the word, and I think I clapped my hands; but right away I straightened up and was very fine and dignified, for I saw Aunt Hattie looking at me from across the room, as I said: