y on
her head, and a voice said tenderly, "My darling!"

"Dear papa!" she responded, glancing up into his face with tear-dimmed
eyes, as he stood at the back of her sofa, bending over her. "Let me give
you a chair," and she would have risen to do so, but he forced her gently
back.

"No; lie still. I will help myself." And coming round in front of her, he
seated himself close at her side.

"Why look at these, if it makes you sad, my child?" he asked, noticing her
occupation.

"There is sometimes a sweetness in the tears called forth by pleasant
memories of loved ones gone before, papa," she said. "These anniversaries
will recall the dear husband who always remembered his little wife so
kindly upon each, and there is a melancholy pleasure in looking over his
Christmas gifts, I have them all here, beginning with this--the very
first. Do you remember it, papa? And this Christmas day when he gave it to
me? the first Christmas that you were with me."

She was holding up a tiny gold thimble.

"Yes, I think I do," he said. "I certainly remember the day, the first
Christmas after my return from Europe, the first on which I heard myself
addressed as papa--the sweetest of child voices calling me that, and
wishing me a merry Christmas, as the dearest, loveliest of little girls
ran into my arms. Dear daughter, what a priceless treasure you have been
to me ever since!" he added, bending over her and softly smoothing her
hair. "It has always been a joy to call you mine."

She caught his hand in hers and pressed it to her lips. "Yes, dear, dear
father! and to me to be so called. We loved one another very dearly then,
each was all the other had, and I think our mutual love has never been
less because of the other many tender ties God has given us since."

"I am sure you are right, daughter, but at that time," he added with a
smile, "you were not willing to share your father's love with another; at
least with one other whom you suspected of trying to win it. Do you
remember how you slipped away to your bed without bidding your papa
good-night, and cried yourself to sleep?"

"Yes, foolish child that I was!" she said, with a low musical laugh; "and
how you surprised me the next morning by your knowledge of my fears, and
then set them all at rest, like the dear, kind father that you were and
always have been."

"No, not always," he sighed.

"Yes, papa, always," she said with playful tenderness. "I will insist upon
that; becaus