When at last he did go to his prisoner, he found her feverish with anxiety and fear for the consequences of her mad act of the day before.

She had been longing for his coming, moving restlessly about the room, feeling that she could not endure the suspense another moment; had at length thrown herself into a chair beside the window, and, as was her wont in times of over-wrought feeling, buried her face on her folded arms, laid on the window-sill.

She started up wildly at the sound of his step and the opening of the door.

“Papa,” she cried breathlessly, “O papa! what—­what have you come to tell me?  Is—­is the baby”—­

“She is living, but far from out of danger,” he said, regarding her with a very grave, stern expression; but it softened as he marked the anguish in her face.

He sat down, and drew her to his knee, putting his arm about her waist, and with the other hand clasping one of hers.

He was startled to feel how hot and dry it was.

“My child!” he exclaimed, “you are not well.”

She dropped her head on his shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs.  “Papa, papa! what shall I do if baby dies?  Oh!  I would do or bear any thing in the world to make her well.”

“I don’t doubt it, daughter,” he said; “but a bitter lesson we all have to learn is, that we cannot undo the evil deeds we have done.  Oh! let this dreadful occurrence be a warning to you to keep a tight rein upon your quick temper.”

“Oh!  I do mean to, indeed I do,” she sobbed; “but that won’t cure the dear baby’s hurt.  Papa, all day long I have been asking God to forgive me.  Do you think he will?”

“I am sure that he has already done so, if you have asked with your heart, and for Jesus’ sake.  But we will ask him again for that, and to give you strength to fight against your evil nature as you never have fought, and to conquer.”

“And to make the baby well, papa,” she added sobbingly, as he knelt with her.

“Yes,” he said.

When they had risen from their knees, he bade her get her hat and coat, saying, “You need fresh air and exercise.  I will take you for a walk.”

“I’d like to go, papa,” she said; “but”—­

“But what?”

“I—­I’m afraid of—­of meeting some of the family; and—­and I don’t want to see any of them.”

“Perhaps we shall not meet them,” he said; “and, if we do, you need not look toward them; and they will not speak to you.  Put on your hat and coat at once:  we have no time to lose.”

She obeyed; and presently they were walking down the avenue, not having met any one on their way out of the house.

The captain moved on in silence, seemingly absorbed in sad thought, and hardly conscious that Lulu was by his side.

She glanced wistfully up into his grave, stern face two or three times, then said humbly, pleadingly, “Papa, please may I put my hand in yours?”