“O papa, please don’t be angry with me!” she pleaded, tears starting to her eyes; “I didn’t mean to listen, but I happened to be at the library door (I was going back to see if you were done writing that letter and I might be with you again) when you told Professor Manton that you wouldn’t have sent me back to Signor Foresti, nor even to his school.  It made me so glad, papa, but I didn’t stop to hear any more, but ran away to the veranda again; because I knew it wouldn’t be right for me to listen to what wasn’t intended for me to hear.”

He took her hand, led her into the library again, drew her to a seat upon his knee, and softly smoothing back the hair from her forehead, said in kind, fatherly tones, “I am not displeased with you, daughter.  I understand that it was quite accidental, and I am sure my little girl is entirely above the meanness of intentionally listening to what is evidently not meant for her ear.  And in fact, now that I think of it, I am not sorry that you know I did not, and do not now, approve of the treatment you received at that time.  Yet that was the first time I had ever mentioned it to any one, and I should be sorry to have your Grandpa Dinsmore know, or suspect, how entirely I disapproved of what he thought best to do at the time.  Can, and will, my little daughter promise to keep the secret? never mentioning it to any one but me?”

“Yes, indeed, papa,” she returned, looking up brightly into his face.  “Oh, it’s nice to be trusted by you, and not even threatened with punishment if I disobey!”

“I am happy to think that is by no means necessary,” he said, drawing her into a closer embrace.  “I believe my little girl loves her father well enough to do of her own free will what she knows he would have her do.”

“Yes, indeed, papa,” she answered earnestly; “and do you know, it seems a great pleasure to have a secret along with you.  But, papa, why did you write—­after I had confessed it all to you—­as if you were so much displeased with me that you couldn’t let me stay any longer at Ion after you had found another place to put me?”

“My child, as I had put you under Grandpa Dinsmore’s care, it was your duty to submit to his orders till I could be heard from in regard to the matter.  You should therefore have gone back, not only to the school, but to the music teacher, when he directed you to do so; you were disobeying me in refusing, and also showing great ingratitude to the kind friends who were doing so much for you without your having the slightest claim upon them.”

“Papa, I am very sorry and ashamed,” she murmured low and tremulously, hanging her head and blushing deeply as she spoke; “I almost want you to punish me well for it yet.”

“No, daughter, that account was settled long ago,” he said in kindly, reassuring accents, “fully settled, and I have no desire to open it again.”

“But, oh, papa,” she sighed, “sometimes I do feel so afraid I may get into a passion with somebody about something while we’re here this winter, with all the Ion folks, that—­that I believe I want you to say you will punish me very severely if I do.”