By the time the story had come to an end, he was exceedingly angry with Lulu; he felt that in this instance it would be no painful task to him to chastise her with extreme severity; in fact, he dared not go to her at once, lest he should do her some injury; he had never yet punished a child in anger; he had often resolved that he never would, but would always wait till the feeling of love for the delinquent was uppermost in his heart, so that he could be entirely sure his motive was a desire for the reformation of the offender, and not the gratification of his own passion.

Feeling that he had a battle to fight with himself ere he dared venture to discipline his child, and that he must have solitude for it, he strode away down the avenue, turned into a part of the grounds but little frequented, and there paced back and forth, his arms folded on his breast, his head bent, his heart going up in silent prayer for strength to rule his own spirit, for patience and wisdom according to his need.

Then he strove to recall all that was lovable about his wayward little daughter, and to think of every possible excuse for the dreadful deed she had done, yet without being able to find any that deserved the name.

At length, feeling that the victory was at least partially won, and filled with anxiety about the baby, he began to retrace his steps toward the house.

In the avenue, he met Edward and Zoe, who greeted him with joyful surprise, not having before known of his arrival.

The expression of his countenance told them that he was already informed of the sad occurrence of the morning; and Edward said with heartfelt sympathy, “It is but a sad home-coming for you, captain, but let us try to hope for the best:  it is possible the little darling has not received any lasting injury.”

A silent pressure of the hand was the captain’s only reply for the moment.  He seemed too much overcome for speech.

“Such a darling as she is!” said Zoe; “the pet of the whole house, and just the loveliest little creature I ever saw.”

“Did you—­either of you—­see her fall?” asked the captain huskily.

“Yes,” said Zoe, “I did.  Violet and I happened to be at the window of the little reception-room overlooking the veranda, and were watching the little creature as she toddled along, and”—­But Zoe paused, suddenly remembering that her listener was the father of Lulu as well as of her poor little victim.

“Please go on,” he said with emotion.  “What was it that sent her down the steps?”

“Lulu was standing there,” Zoe went on, hesitating, and coloring with embarrassment, “and I saw the baby-hands clutch at her skirts”—­

Again she paused.

“And Lulu, giving the tender, toddling thing a savage kick, caused the dreadful catastrophe?” he groaned, turning away his face.  “You need not have feared to tell me.  I had already heard it from the servants who were eye-witnesses, and I only wanted further and undoubtedly reliable testimony.”