"Oh, papa!" she cried, lifting her hands in dismay, "what a task. Please excuse me. You know all about it, and is not that sufficient?"
"No, the property is yours; I have been only your steward, and must now render up an account to you for the way in which I have handled your property."
"You render an account to me, my own dear father," she said low and tremulously, while her face flushed crimson; "I cannot bear to hear you speak so. I am fully satisfied, and very, very thankful for all your kind care of it and of me."
He regarded her with a smile of mingled tenderness and amusement, while softly patting and stroking the small white hand laid lovingly upon his.
"Could I—could any father—do less for his own beloved child?" he asked.
"Not you, I know, papa. But may I ask you a question?"
"As many as you like."
"How much are you worth? Ah! you needn't look so quizzical. I mean how much do you own in money, land, etc.?"
"Something less than a million; I cannot tell you the exact number of dollars and cents."
"Hardly a third as much as I! It doesn't seem right. Papa, take half of mine."