"You may be mistaken, my child."
"Then Miss Cardigan will burn the letter, papa. I can trust
her."
"Can I trust her?"
"Yes, papa, through me. Please let me have it. There shall
come no harm from this, papa."
"Daisy, your mother says he is engaged to this girl."
"It is a mistake, papa."
"You cannot prove it, my child."
"Time will."
"Then will be soon enough for my action."
"But papa, in the mean time? - think of the months he has been
waiting already for an answer -"
I suppose the tears were in my eyes, as I pleaded, with my
hand still upon papa's hand, covering the papers. He slowly
drew his hand away, leaving the letter under mine.
"Well!" - said he, - "do as you will."
"You are not unwilling, papa?"
"I am a little unwilling, Daisy; but I cannot deny you, child.
I hope you are right."
"Then, papa, add that one word about letters, will you?"
"And if it is all undeserved?"
"It is not, papa."
Papa set his teeth for a moment, with a look which, however,
wonted perhaps in his youthful days, I had very rarely seen
called up in him. It passed then, and he wrote the brief word
I had asked for, of addition to his letter, and gave it to me;
and then took me in his arms and kissed me again.
"You are not very wise in the world, my Daisy," he said; "and
men would say I am not. But I cannot deny you. Guard your
letter to Miss Cardigan. And for the present all this matter
shall sleep in our own bosoms."
"Papa," I asked, "how much did mamma know - I mean - how much
did she hear about me that was true?"
"It was reported that you had been engaged."
"She heard that."
"Yes."
"She has never spoken about it."
"She thinks it not necessary."
I was silent a moment, pondering, as well I might; but then I
kissed papa and thanked him, and went off and wrote and posted
my letter with its enclosure. Sufficient to the day is the
evil thereof.