y one, my
ewe-lamb. It lay in my lap during breakfast, looking up at me with an
inexplicable meaning, making me feel myself a thing double-existent--a
child to that dear papa, but no more a child to myself. After breakfast
I carried my letter up-stairs, and having secured myself by turning the
key in the door, I began to study the outside of my treasure: it was
some minutes before I could get over the direction and penetrate the
seal; one does not take a strong place of this kind by instant
storm--one sits down awhile before it, as beleaguers say. Graham's hand
is like himself, Lucy, and so is his seal--all clear, firm, and
rounded--no slovenly splash of wax--a full, solid, steady drop--a
distinct impress; no pointed turns harshly pricking the optic nerve,
but a clean, mellow, pleasant manuscript, that soothes you as you read.
It is like his face--just like the chiselling of his features: do you
know his autograph?"

"I have seen it: go on."

"The seal was too beautiful to be broken, so I cut it round with my
scissors. On the point of reading the letter at last, I once more drew
back voluntarily; it was too soon yet to drink that draught--the
sparkle in the cup was so beautiful--I would watch it yet a minute.
Then I remembered all at once that I had not said my prayers that
morning. Having heard papa go down to breakfast a little earlier than
usual, I had been afraid of keeping him waiting, and had hastened to
join him as soon as dressed, thinking no harm to put off prayers till
afterwards. Some people would say I ought to have served God first and
then man; but I don't think heaven could be jealous of anything I might
do for papa. I believe I am superstitious. A voice seemed now to say
that another feeling than filial affection was in question--to urge me
to pray before I dared to read what I so longed to read--to deny myself
yet a moment, and remember first a great duty. I have had these
impulses ever since I can remember. I put the letter down and said my
prayers, adding, at the end, a strong entreaty that whatever happened,
I might not be tempted or led to cause papa any sorrow, and might
never, in caring for others, neglect him. The very thought of such a
possibility, so pierced my heart that it made me cry. But still, Lucy,
I felt that in time papa would have to be taught the truth, managed,
and induced to hear reason.

"I read the letter. Lucy, life is said to be all disappointment. _I_
was not disappointed.