Then, apparently thinking it unwise to say more upon the subject just then, he turned his attention again to the package which he still held in his hands.
Editha’s eyes followed his, and she held out her hand, saying:
“I will replace that in the safe now, if you please.”
“I wonder what there is in it?” he said, curiously.
Her lip curled a little, but she made no reply, still standing with outstretched hand, waiting for him to give it to her.
“I’ve half a mind to open it,” he muttered.
“No, indeed!” she cried, in alarm, and taking a step forward.
“Pshaw! it can do no harm—it cannot contain anything so very remarkable.”
“Sir, pray do not allow me to lose all the respect I have for my own father,” Editha cried, sternly, her eyes ablaze, her face flushing a painful crimson, her form dilating with surprise, indignation, and grief.
A peculiar, mocking laugh was all the reply he made to this, but he handed back the package; not, however, without inwardly resolving to ascertain, before very long, what it contained.