r, "it is time we should understand
each other. Your state of mind has for a long time troubled me; but
while debt lay so heavy upon me, I could give my attention to nothing
else. Why should there be any thing but perfect confidence between a
father and daughter who belong to each other alone in all the world?
Tell me what it is that so plainly oppresses you. What prevents you from
opening your heart to me? You can not doubt my love."

"Never for one moment, father," she answered, almost eagerly, pressing
to her heart the arm on which she leaned. "I know I am safe with you
because I am yours, and yet somehow I can not get so close to you as I
would. Something comes between us, and prevents me."

"What is it, my child? I will do all and every thing I can to remove
it."

"You, dear father! I don't believe ever child had such a father."

"Oh yes, my dear! many have had better fathers, but none better than I
hope one day by the grace of God to be to you. I am a poor creature,
Dorothy, but I love you as my own soul. You are the blessing of my days,
and my thoughts brood over you in the night: it would be in utter
content, if I only saw you happy. If your face were acquainted with
smiles, my heart would be acquainted with gladness."

For a time neither said any thing more. The silent tears were streaming
from Dorothy's eyes. At length she spoke.

"I wonder if I could tell you what it is without hurting you, father!"
she said.

"I can hear any thing from you, my child," he answered. "Then I will
try. But I do not think I shall ever quite know my father on earth, or
be quite able to open my heart to him, until I have found my Father in
Heaven."

"Ah, my child! is it so with you? Do you fear you have not yet given
yourself to the Saviour? Give yourself now. His arms are ever open to
receive you."

"That is hardly the point, father.--Will you let me ask you any question
I please?"

"Assuredly, my child." He always spoke, though quite unconsciously, with
a little of the _ex-cathedral_ tone.

"Then tell me, father, are you just as sure of God as you are of me
standing here before you?"

She had stopped and turned, and stood looking him full in the face with
wide, troubled eyes.

Mr. Drake was silent. Hateful is the professional, contemptible is the
love of display, but in his case they floated only as vapors in the air
of a genuine soul. He was a true man, and as he could not say _yes_,
neither would he hide his _