n the
whole she was inclined to be favorable to my point of view.

As for Phyllis, she had listened to me with undisguised
amazement. Her big gray eyes had grown larger, and the color left
her cheeks as I finished. Then the rosy red rushed back, her lip
quivered and the tears sprang to her eyes. A moment later she
smiled, then laughed, and was serious again. How incomprehensible
are these young girls! Poor child! she had never known a father's
love.

Phyllis followed me to the door. The light, streaming from the
parlor, shone squarely on her exquisite face. A thrill of
pleasure went through me as I realized that at last I had a
daughter whom I could love and cherish. I took her hand in both
of mine, and, as I released it, I parted the light, wavy hair,
and kissed her forehead. It seemed to me that she trembled
slightly, but in a moment she was herself, and a gleam of
merriment was in her eyes, as she said:

"Of course you will write to me--papa?"

Doubtless the novelty of the situation made me just a little
embarrassed. To be called "papa" the first time by a pretty girl
was more embarrassing than I had expected. And why that
half-laugh in her eye, and why that almost quizzical tone? Was I
not kind and good enough to be her father, and had I not tried to
show her every paternal consideration? Was I not honestly
endeavoring to fulfil a sacred pledge? I was perplexed but not
discouraged. "I will prove to her," I said to myself with
firmness, "that I am entirely worthy of her filial affection, and
that she may lean confidently upon me." And I went straightway
to bed, and dreamed of her all night as every true father should
dream of the daughter of his heart and his hope.

In the very nature of things it was necessary that I should
return frequently to Meadowvale, to confer with the village
committee and make all proper arrangements for beginning so
important a local enterprise. While this put an end to my
projected trip to Europe I accepted the situation with calmness
and forbearance, satisfied that in the pursuit of duty and in
giving happiness to my fellow creatures I should have the reward
of an approving conscience. To my nephew, Frederick Grinnell, I
gave the task of preparing the plans, and his excellent
suggestions were cordially adopted. Much of my spare time--and it
is amazing how much spare time one has in a village--was spent at
the Eastmann cottage with my new daughter, and in the evening I
talk