Barbara Reads to her Father
Barbara laughed—a little sadly. "No, Daddy—for me. But there is something for you in it. Sit down, and I'll read it to you."
"Read it all," he cried. "Read every word."
"Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," read the girl, her voice shaking, "if you live to read this letter, your mother will have been dead for many years, and possibly forgotten."
"No," breathed Ambrose North—"never forgotten."
"I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this, because I am twenty-two now, and when you are the same age, it will be as if we were sisters, rather than mother and daughter."
"Dear Constance," whispered the old man.
"When I came from school, I met your father. He was a brilliant man, handsome, courteous, distinguished, of fine character and unassailable position."
Barbara glanced up quickly. The dull red had crept into his wrinkled cheeks, but his lips were parted in a smile.
"There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. I have disappointed him, I fear, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never loved him more than I do to-day, when I leave you both forever.