which they together had planned and beautified.

Unfortunately, neither he nor his wife had near relatives. She had been an
only child whose parents had died shortly after her marriage, and such
distant relatives as remained to him were far away in England, his native
land. His greatest problem was the little daughter. Nursemaids and
nursery-governesses were to be had by the score, but nursemaids and
nursery-governesses were one thing with a mistress at the head of the
household and quite another without one, as, during the past six months,
Mr. Reeve had learned to his sorrow, and the poor man had more than once
been driven to the verge of insanity by their want of thought, or even
worse.

At last he determined to close his house, place Toinette in some "ideal"
school, and travel for six months, or even longer, little dreaming that
the six months would lengthen into as many years ere he again saw her. The
trip begun for diversion was soon merged into one for business interests,
as the prominent law firm of which he was a member had matters of
importance to be looked after upon the other side of the water, and were
only too glad to have so efficient a person to do it.

So, before he realized it, half the globe divided him from the
sunny-haired little daughter whom he had placed in the supposed ideal
school, chosen after deliberate consideration from those he had
corresponded with.

But this anticipates a trifle.

As he sits in the library of his big house, a house which seems so like
some beautiful instrument lacking the touch of the master hand to draw
forth its sweetest and best, the sound of little dancing feet can be heard
through the half-open door, and a sweet little voice calls out:

"Papa, Papa Clayton. Where is my precious Daddy?" and a golden-haired
child running into the room throws herself into his arms, clasps her own
about his neck and nestles her head upon his shoulder.

He held her close as he asked:

"Well, little Heart's-Ease, what can the old Daddy do for you?"

The child raised her head, and, looking at him with her big brown eyes,
eyes so like his own, said, reproachfully: "You are _not_ an old Daddy;
Stanton (the butler) is old, you are just my own, own Papa Clayton, and
mamma used to say that you _couldn't_ grow old 'cause she and I loved you
so hard."

Mr. Reeve quivered slightly at the child's words, and with a surprised
look she asked:

"Are you cold, dear Daddy? It isn't cold here,