With a scream of joy the little figure sprang down from its high perch in the window, and ran precipitately into his arms.
"Oh, papa, dear papa, you are home again!" she exclaimed, laughing and crying together, and patting his grey whiskers with her loving white hands.
"Yes, but you aren't glad to see me one bit. You're crying because I've come home. Shall I go back to the city, eh?" he inquired, softly pinching her cheek, and looking at her with kind, blue eyes full of love.
Irene hid her lovely face on his broad breast and sobbed aloud.
"Why, what ails my little girl?" he exclaimed. "Who's been teasing my pet? Where are mamma and the girls?"
With a fresh rain of tears, Irene sobbed out:
"All g—gone to the b—ball, and would not let—let—me g—go, after you'd told them all I might, papa."
The old man's genial face clouded over instantly with some intangible annoyance.
"Why wouldn't they let you go?" he inquired.
"Bertha said if I went, she wouldn't," replied Irene, hushing her sobs, and answering in a high-pitched, indignant young voice; "she said children had no business at a ball! The idea of calling me a child! I was sixteen, yesterday! Oh, papa, have you brought me a birthday present from the city?" she inquired, eagerly, forgetting for a moment her grievance.