“Shall I get into bed, papa?” she asked tremulously, when she had finished.

“No, not yet.  Come here.”

She went and stood at his side, with drooping head and fast-beating heart, her eyes on the carpet, for she dared not look in his face.

He seemed to have found the passage he sought; and, keeping the book open with his left hand, he turned to her as she stood at his right.

“Lucilla,” he said, and his accents were not stern, though very grave and sad, “you cannot have forgotten that I have repeatedly and positively forbidden you to go wandering alone about unfrequented streets and roads, even in broad daylight; yet you attempted to do that very thing to-night in the darkness, which, of course, makes it much worse.”

“Yes, papa; but I—­I didn’t mean ever to come back.”

“You were running away?”

“Yes, sir:  I—­I thought you would be glad to get rid of me,” she sobbed.

He did not speak again for a moment; and when he did, it was in moved tones.

“Supposing I did desire to be rid of you,—­which is very far from being the case,—­I should have no right to let you go; for you are my own child, whom God has given to me to take care of, provide for, and train up for his service.  You and I belong to each other as parent and child:  you have no right to run away from my care and authority, and I have none to let you do so.  In fact, I feel compelled to punish the attempt quite severely, lest there should be a repetition of it.”

“Oh, don’t, papa!” she sobbed.  “I’ll never do it again.”

“It was an act of daring, wilful disobedience,” he said, “and I must punish you for it.  Also, for the fury of passion indulged in this morning.  Read this, and this, aloud,” he added, pointing to the open page; and she obeyed, reading faltering, sobbingly,—­

“’Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.’ ...  ’Withhold not correction from the child:  for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.  Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.’”

“You see, my child, that my orders are too plain to be misunderstood,” he said, when she had finished; “and they must be obeyed, however unwelcome to me or to you.”

“Yes, papa; and—­and I—­I—­’most want you to whip me for hurting the baby so.  I suppose nobody believes I’m sorry, but I am.  I could beat myself for it, though I didn’t know it was the baby pulling at my skirt.  I thought it was Rosie’s dog.”

“It is not exactly for hurting the baby,” he said; “if you had done that by accident, I should never think of punishing you for it:  but for the fury of passion that betrayed you into doing it, I must punish you very severely.

“I shudder to think what you may come to, if I let you go on indulging your fiery, ungovernable temper:  yes, and to think what it has already brought you to,” he added, with a heavy sigh.