"Come, Regie," he said, "out with it. Don't cry, whatever you do; that's like a baby. Have you been doing something wrong? Tell me all about it. Confession is half way to forgiveness. Don't be afraid of me. For heaven's sake, don't be afraid of me!" added my father, with impatient sadness, and the frown deepening so rapidly on his face that my tears flowed in proportion.
(How sad are the helpless struggles of a widowed father with young children, I could not then appreciate. How seldom successful is the alternative of a second marriage, has become proverbial in excess of the truth.)
My father was more patient than many men. He did not dismiss me and my tears to the nursery in despair. With the insight and tenderness of a mother he restrained himself, and unknitting his brows, held out both his hands and said very kindly,
"Come and tell poor Papa all about it, my darling."
On which I jumped from my chair, and rushing up to him, threw my arms about his neck and sobbed out, "Oh, Papa! Papa! I don't want him."
"Don't want whom, my boy?"
"M-m-m-m-r. Gray," I sobbed.
"And who on earth is Mr. Gray, Regie?" inquired my perplexed parent.
"The tutor—the new tutor," I explained.
"But whose new tutor?" cried the distracted gentleman, whose confusion seemed in no way lessened when I added,