"Heavens!" interrupted her father, "you 'll kill her with kindness--that fresh, wild rose can't stand all that--"
"Oh, yes, she can, papa; she can stand that just as well as I stood going up there where everything was so different."
"True," said Mr. Clyde, thoughtfully, "it was different."
"Oh, it was, papa! I never had to go to bed alone. Mrs. Blossom always came to say good-night and to kiss me, and to--to--"
"To what?" asked her father.
"You won't mind if I tell you?" Hazel asked, half-shyly.
"Mind! I should say not; I should mind if you did n't tell me."
"--to say 'Our Father' with me, papa; you know no one ever said it with me before, and it's--it's such a comfy time to feel sorry and talk over what you 've done wrong; and it's that I miss so."
"I don't blame you, Birdie," said her father, quietly. "But now see how late it is!"--he pointed to the clock--"Eleven! This will never do for a débutante. Good-night, darling. Sweet dreams of Rose and the N.B.B.O.O. Society."
"Good-night, Papa Clyde; Doctor Heath says you are the most splendid fellow in the world--but I know you are the dearest father in the world; good-night, I 've had a lovely party."