She lifted her head, and looked about her.  It was growing dusk.  Quick as a flash came the thought that now was her time; now, while almost everybody was so taken up with the critical condition of the injured little one; now, before the servants had lighted the lamps in rooms and halls.

She would slip down a back stairway, out into the grounds, and away, she cared not whither.

Always impulsive, and now full of mental distress, she did not pause a moment to consider, but, snatching up a hat and coat lying conveniently at hand, stole noiselessly from the room, putting them on as she went.

She gained a side-door without meeting any one; and the grounds seemed deserted as she passed round the house and entered the avenue, down which she ran with swift footsteps, after one hasty glance around to make sure that she was not seen.

She reached the great gates, pushed them open, stepped out, letting them swing to after her, and started on a run down the road.

But the next instant some one had caught her:  a hand was on her shoulder, and a stern, astonished voice cried, “Lulu! is it possible this can be you?  What are you doing out here in the public road alone, and in the darkness of evening?  Where were you going?”

“I—­I—­don’t want—­to tell you, papa,” she faltered.

“Where were you going?” he repeated, in a tone that said an answer he would have, and that at once.

“Nowhere—­anywhere to get away from this place, where everybody hates me!” she replied sullenly, trying to wrench herself free.  “Please let me go, and I’ll never come back to trouble you any more.”

He made no reply to that, but simply took her band in a firm grasp, and led her back to the house, back to her own room, where he shut himself in with her, locking the door on the inside.

Then he dropped her hand, and began pacing the floor to and fro, seemingly in deep and troubled thought, his arms folded, his head bowed upon his breast.

A servant had brought in a light during Lulu’s absence; and now, looking timidly up at her father, she saw his face for the first time since they had bidden each other farewell a year before.  It struck her as not only very pale, stern, and grief-stricken, but very much older and more deeply lined than she remembered it:  she did not know that the change had been wrought almost entirely in the last few hours, yet recognized it with a pang nevertheless.

“Papa is growing old,” she thought:  “are there gray hairs in his head, I wonder?” Then there came dimly to her recollection some Bible words about bringing a father’s gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave.  “Was her misconduct killing her father?” She burst into an agony of sobs and tears at the thought.

He lifted his head, and looked at her gravely, and with mingled sternness and compassion.

“Take off that hat and coat, get your night-dress, and make yourself ready for bed,” he commanded, then, stepping to the table, sat down, drew the lamp nearer, opened her Bible, lying there, and slowly turned over the leaves as if in search of some particular passage, while she moved slowly about the room, tremblingly and tearfully obeying his order.