"What have I done?" asked Eloise. "Oh, what have I done?"
"Nothing," sighed Barbara. "My mother has been dead for twenty-one years, but my father never forgets. She was only a girl when she died—like me."
"I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me before, so I could have chosen jolly, happy things?"
"That wouldn't keep him from grieving—nothing can, so don't be troubled about it."
Eloise turned back to the piano and sang two or three rollicking, laughing melodies that set Barbara's one foot to tapping on the floor, but the old man did not come back.
"I never meant to stay so long," said Eloise, rising and putting on her hat.
"It isn't long," returned Barbara, with evident sincerity. "I wish you wouldn't go."
"But I must, my dear. If I don't go, I can never come again. I have lots of letters to write, and mail will be waiting for me, and I have some studying to do, so I must go."
Adieus
Barbara went to the door with her. "Good-bye, Fairy Godmother," she said, wistfully.