He gazed at her out of his short-sighted eyes.
“I think not,” he said slowly. “I was imagining you were Verena, or perhaps Briar. Briar is certainly very pretty. No, Pauline, you are not pretty; you are plain. But never mind; you have perhaps got”—he put a finger on each temple—“you have perhaps got something greater.”
“It doesn’t matter if you are plain or not,” said Pauline almost crossly, “when you are awfully worried.”
“But what worries you, my child? I would not have one so young subjected to worries. My dear, is it possible that you already are perplexed with the ways of this present life? Truly, I am scarcely surprised. The life we lead in these degenerate days is so poor; the giants have left the earth, and only the pigmies are left. Don’t worry about life, child; it isn’t worth while.”
“I am not,” said Pauline bluntly. “I am worrying because——”
“Because of what, dear?”
“Because I am going to be desperately naughty.”
Mr. Dale shook his head slowly.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “It is very uncomfortable and wrong, and it sullies the conscience. When the conscience gets sullied the nature goes down—imperceptibly, perhaps, but still it goes down. If your worry is an affair of the conscience, take it to Him who alone can understand you.”
Pauline looked at her father with awed astonishment.