A soft, cool hand was gently laid upon her aching brow, and looking up she saw her father standing by her side. She had not heard his approach, for his slippered feet made no noise in passing over the rich velvet carpet.
His face was grave, but no longer stern or angry. "Does your head ache, daughter?" he asked almost tenderly.
"Yes, papa; but not half so badly as my heart does," she answered, a tear rolling quickly down her cheek. "I am so sorry for my disobedience. Oh, papa, will you forgive me?" And her eyes sought his with the imploring look he ever found it well-nigh impossible to resist.
"Yes, I will—I do," he said, stooping to press a kiss upon the quivering lips. "I had thought I ought to keep you in disgrace some time longer, but your mamma has pleaded for you, and for her sake—and for the sake of a time, long ago, when I caused my little girl much undeserved suffering," he added, his tones growing tremulous with emotion, "I forgive and receive you back into favor at once."
She threw her arm about his neck, and as he drew her to his breast, laid her head down there, weeping tears of joy and thankfulness. "Dear, kind mamma! and you too, best and dearest of fathers! I don't deserve it," she sobbed. "I am afraid I ought to be punished for such disobedience."
"I think you have been," he said pityingly, "the last three days can hardly have been very happy ones to you."
"No, papa; very, very wretched."
"My poor child! Ah, I must take better care of my precious one in future. I shall allow you to go nowhere without either your mother or myself to guard and protect you. Also, I shall break off your intimacy with Lucy Carrington; she is henceforth to be to you a mere speaking acquaintance; come, now we will take a little stroll through the grounds. The cool air will, I hope, do your head good."
CHAPTER XXII.
'Twas the doubt that thou wert false,
That wrung my heart with pain;
But now I know thy perfidy,
I shall be well again.