fter
she expressed a little rapture over the assurance. "My papa said the
other day, what I'd do when we went back to the city 'thout you, and I
said I was going to take you along; 'll you go?"

"How could I? Leave my mama and sisters?"

"But don't you love me 'n my papa?"

"I love you a very great deal."

"'N not my papa?"

"I think he's a very nice gentleman, and that you ought to be a very
good little girl, and love him lots and lots."

Pansy drew back, and slowly surveyed her idol, as though she had just
discovered the first flaw. "I think you might love him, too," she said
with a grieved air, and some resentment.

"If she loved him, she wouldn't love you so much," said Kat, slyly.

"Then I'm glad you don't," exclaimed Pansy, with sudden satisfaction,
and returning to her seat with an enraptured smile.

There was no mistaking the child's devotion. She firmly believed that
Kittie had saved her from being lost forever, and on the foundation of
her great gratitude, she had built an overwhelming love, that expressed
itself in various ways. She never let any one of the family come to town
without bringing flowers, and she insisted on coming in at least three
times a week, herself; and it may be remarked, that whatever Pansy set
her mind on, she did.

Between aunts, uncles, and cousins, and a father, who was rapidly coming
to the conclusion that she was the most wonderful child alive, she was
in a fair way of being spoiled, and had finally come to where she ruled
the household with the most imperious little will, which every one
submitted to, and thought delightful.

Twice since the picnic, she had come with her papa, in the phaeton, and
taken Kittie to ride, and three times, Mr. Murray had come in the long
summer evenings, and brought her to spend an hour or two; and there
Kittie's acquaintance with him ceased.

In the rides, he had talked to her but little, preferring to listen to
the unbroken chatter which Pansy kept up with her. And then he saw, that
to her, he appeared in a fatherly guise, which made her feel perfectly
free and unrestrained, and he thought it best to leave it so for the
present.

His calls in the evenings had been entirely devoted to Mrs. Dering. They
would sit on the porch, in proper, elderly fashion, sometimes joined by
Bea, while the twins and Pansy would roam about the yard, and play
together like three children, and Mr. Murray would have nothing to say
to the one he really came