As he sits in the library of his big house, a house which seems so like some beautiful instrument lacking the touch of the master hand to draw forth its sweetest and best, the sound of little dancing feet can be heard through the half-open door, and a sweet little voice calls out:
“Papa, Papa Clayton. Where is my precious Daddy?” and a golden-haired child running into the room throws herself into his arms, clasps her own about his neck and nestles her head upon his shoulder.
He held her close as he asked:
“Well, little Heart’s-Ease, what can the old Daddy do for you?”
The child raised her head, and, looking at him with her big brown eyes, eyes so like his own, said, reproachfully: “You are not an old Daddy; Stanton (the butler) is old, you are just my own, own Papa Clayton, and mamma used to say that you couldn’t grow old ’cause she and I loved you so hard.”
Mr. Reeve quivered slightly at the child’s words, and with a surprised look she asked:
“Are you cold, dear Daddy? It isn’t cold here, is it?”
“No, not in the room, Heart’s-Ease, but right here,” laying his hand upon his heart.
The child regarded him questioningly with her big, earnest eyes, and said:
“Did it grow cold because mamma went so sound asleep?”