ed to speak.

"Come quick!" she cried. "Papa Jack's a-dyin'! Come stop him!"

At her first impetuous words the Colonel was on his feet. She caught him
by the hand and led him to the door before he fully realized what she
wanted. Then he drew back. She was impatient at the slightest delay, and
only half answered his questions.

"Oh, come, gran'fathah!" she pleaded. "Don't wait to talk!" But he held
her until he had learned all the circumstances. He was convinced by what
she told him that both Lloyd and her mother were unduly alarmed. When he
found that no one had sent for him, but that the child had come of her
own accord, he refused to go.

He did not believe that the man was dying, and he did not intend to step
aside one inch from the position he had taken. For seven years he had
kept the vow he made when he swore to be a stranger to his daughter. He
would keep it for seventy times seven years if need be.

She looked at him perfectly bewildered. She had been so accustomed to
his humouring her slightest whims, that it had never occurred to her he
would fail to help in a time of such distress.

"Why, gran'fathah," she began, her lips trembling piteously. Then her
whole expression changed. Her face grew startlingly white, and her eyes
seemed so big and black. The Colonel looked at her in surprise. He had
never seen a child in such a passion before. "I hate you! I hate you!"
she exclaimed, all in a tremble. "You's a cruel, wicked man. I'll nevah
come heah again, nevah! nevah! nevah!"

The tears rolled down her cheeks as she banged the door behind her
and ran down the avenue, her little heart so full of grief and
disappointment that she felt she could not possibly bear it.

For more than an hour the Colonel walked up and down the room, unable to
shut out the anger and disappointment of that little face.

He knew she was too much like himself ever to retract her words. She
would never come back. He never knew until that hour how much he
loved her, or how much she had come to mean in his life. She was
gone hopelessly beyond recall, unless--He unlocked the door of the
drawing-room and went in. A faint breath of dried rose-leaves greeted
him. He walked over to the empty fireplace and looked up at the sweet
face of the portrait a long time. Then he leaned his arm on the mantel
and bowed his head on it. "Oh, Amanthis," he groaned, "tell me what to
do."

Lloyd's own words came back to him. "She'd go right straight an' p