“Marie, it is I that am your papa.”
“Oh,” answered she.
I added—
“Do you not wish that I should be your papa?”
I covered her with tears and kisses. She endeavoured to disengage herself from my embrace, crying—
“Your beard hurts me.”
Then I put her once more upon my knees, and, looking into her eyes, asked her—
“Marie, do you know how to read?”
“Yes,” answered she, “I can read; mamma taught me my letters.”
“Come, read a little,” said I, showing her a paper that she had crumpled up in her hand.