"Never for one moment, father," she answered, almost eagerly, pressing to her heart the arm on which she leaned. "I know I am safe with you because I am yours, and yet somehow I can not get so close to you as I would. Something comes between us, and prevents me."
"What is it, my child? I will do all and every thing I can to remove it."
"You, dear father! I don't believe ever child had such a father."
"Oh yes, my dear! many have had better fathers, but none better than I hope one day by the grace of God to be to you. I am a poor creature, Dorothy, but I love you as my own soul. You are the blessing of my days, and my thoughts brood over you in the night: it would be in utter content, if I only saw you happy. If your face were acquainted with smiles, my heart would be acquainted with gladness."
For a time neither said any thing more. The silent tears were streaming from Dorothy's eyes. At length she spoke.
"I wonder if I could tell you what it is without hurting you, father!" she said.
"I can hear any thing from you, my child," he answered. "Then I will try. But I do not think I shall ever quite know my father on earth, or be quite able to open my heart to him, until I have found my Father in Heaven."
"Ah, my child! is it so with you? Do you fear you have not yet given yourself to the Saviour? Give yourself now. His arms are ever open to receive you."
"That is hardly the point, father.—Will you let me ask you any question
I please?"
"Assuredly, my child." He always spoke, though quite unconsciously, with a little of the ex-cathedral tone.