“Father!”
The parental appellative was pronounced in a low murmur, the speaker not uplifting her eyes from the object upon which she had been gazing.
That object was a small silken purse that lay upon the table. Stringless it was, though the broken strands of a blue ribbon attached to it showed that it had not always been so.
Loftus Vaughan knew not the history of that purse, neither why it lay there, what had stripped it of its string, or why his daughter was so sadly gazing upon it. This last circumstance he noticed on entering the kiosk.
“Ah, your pretty purse!” said he, taking it up, and examining it more minutely.
“Some one has torn the string from it—a pity! who can have done it?”
Little did he care for an answer. As little did he suspect that the rape of that bit of ribbon had aught to do with his daughter’s dejection, which he had observed throughout the morning. The surprise he had expressed, and the question put, were only intended to initiate the more serious conversation he was about to introduce.
“Oh, papa! it don’t signify,” said Kate, avoiding a direct answer; “’tis but a bit of ribbon. I can easily replace it by another.”
Ah, Kate! you may easily replace the ribbon upon the purse, but not so easily that peace of mind which parted from your bosom at the same time. When that string was torn, torn, too, were the strings of your heart!
Some such reflection must have passed through her mind as she made the reply; for the shadow visibly deepened over her countenance.