“I cannot rest happy with any secret from you,” said the girl, with averted head, and her cheeks burning for shame at the clandestine correspondence she was carrying on.
“That’s right, my darling,” said the old man, patting the soft fair hair and smoothing it over her forehead.
“Papa, dear,” she continued, after a long pause, during which she fought hard to nerve herself for what she had to say.
“Yes, my child. There, you’re not afraid of me.”
“Oh, no, dear,” she cried, drawing his arm around her neck, and holding his hand with both hers to her throbbing bosom. “Papa, I’m afraid—”
“Afraid, my dear?”
“Afraid that I love Mr Melton very dearly.”
She hid her face upon the withered old hand, and the burning blood crimsoned her soft white neck at this avowal.
“Well—well—well! He—he—he!” chuckled the old man. “I—I—I don’t see anything so very shocking in that, Maude. Charley Melton is a doosed fine fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”
“Oh, papa, papa,” cried Maude joyfully; and she turned, flung her arms round his neck, and hid her face in his bosom.