The book her father bade her read to him was simply a fictitious moral tale, without a particle of religious truth in it, and, Elsie's conscience told her, entirely unfit for Sabbath reading.
"Elsie!" exclaimed her father, in a tone of mingled reproof and surprise, "did you hear me?"
"Yes, papa," she murmured, in a low tone.
"Then go at once and get the book, as I bid you; it lies yonder on the dressing-table."
Elsie moved slowly across the room, her father looking after her somewhat impatiently.
"Come, Elsie, make haste," he said, as she laid her hand upon the book.
"I think I never saw you move so slowly,"
Without replying she took it up and returned to the bedside. Then, as he caught sight of her face, and saw that her cheeks were pale and wet with tears, he exclaimed, "What, crying, Elsie! what ails you, my daughter? Are you ill, darling?"
His tone was one of tender solicitude, and accompanied with a caress, as he took her hand and drew her towards him.
"Oh, papa!" she sobbed, laying her head on the pillow beside him, "please do not ask me to read that book to-day."
He did not reply for a moment, and when he did, Elsie was startled by the change in his tone; it was so exceedingly stern and severe.