“I have something to say to you before I answer that question,” he said, softly stroking her hair, and looking with grave tenderness into the beseeching eyes. “You are not very strong, and bore the fatigue of the Pinegrove party so ill, that I fear the effect upon your health if I should allow you to attend another.
“Health is one of God’s good gifts, and as such we have no right to throw it away simply for our own pleasure. It is a Christian duty to take care of it; because we can serve God better with strong, healthy bodies, than with feeble, sickly ones. The Bible bids us, ‘Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.’ Do you think, my child, that you can obey this command in going to the party, when you know it is likely to injure your health?”
“I’m afraid not, papa,” she answered, in a low, reluctant tone.
“Very well; I leave it to your own conscience; you shall decide for yourself, whether you will go or stay.”
“Then, I shall stay, papa, because you have made it plain to me that I ought. But,” she sighed, “it will seem very lonesome while you and mamma are gone.”
“No; we will not go early, and I shall see you safe in your bed before starting.”
“Then, I shall not care so much,” she said. “I am pretty sure to go to sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. Papa, are we to have any company to-morrow?”
“None, by invitation; the house has been so full for some time past, that your mamma and I feel that it will be pleasant to take our New Year’s dinner with only our own little family; for we hardly consider your aunt Adelaide as other than one of ourselves.”
“I think it will be nice,” she said, with satisfaction; “though I’d be glad if we could have Cousin Milly, and the doctor, and Annis.”
“So should I,” he responded; “they have come to seem a part of our family.”