Daddy's Girl. Meade L. T.

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СКАЧАТЬ yes, father,” answered the Angel, “but, you see, I wasn’t born that way, same as you was. It seems a pity, doesn’t it? You’re perfect and I am not. I can’t help the way I was born, can I, father?”

      “No; no one is perfect, darling,” replied the father.

      “You are,” answered the Angel, and she gave her head a defiant toss. “You and my mother and my beautiful Lord Jesus up in heaven. But I’ll try to please you, father, so don’t knit up your forehead.”

      Sibyl as she spoke laid her soft hand on her father’s brow and tried to smooth out some wrinkles.

      “Same as if you was an old man,” she said: “but you’re perfect, perfect, and I love you, I love you,” and she encircled his neck with her soft arms and pressed many kisses on his face.

      On these occasions Philip Ogilvie felt uncomfortable, for he was a man with many passions and beset with infirmities, and at the time when Sibyl praised him most, when she uttered her charming, confident words, and raised her eyes full of absolute faith to his, he was thinking with a strange acute pain at his heart of a transaction which he might undertake and of a temptation which he knew well was soon to be presented to him.

      “I should not like the child to know about it,” was his reflection; “but all the same, if I do it, if I fall, it will be for her sake, for hers alone.”

      CHAPTER II

      Sibyl skipped down to the drawing-room with her spirits brimful of happiness. She opened the door wide and danced in.

      “Here I come,” she cried, “here I come, buttercups and daisies and violets and me.” She looked from one parent to the other, held out her flowing short skirts with each dimpled hand, and danced across the room.

      Mrs. Ogilvie had tears in her eyes; she had just come to the sentimental part of her quarrel. At sight of the child she rose hastily, and walked to the window. Philip Ogilvie went down the room, put both his hands around Sibyl’s waist, and lifted her to a level with his shoulders.

      “What a fairy-like little girl this is!” he cried.

      “You are Spring come to cheer us up.”

      “I am glad,” whispered Sibyl; “but let me down, please, father, I want to kiss mother.”

      Mr. Ogilvie dropped her to the ground. She ran up to her mother.

      “Father says I am Spring, look at me,” she said, and she gazed into the beautiful, somewhat sullen face of her parent.

      Mrs. Ogilvie had hoped that Sibyl would not notice her tears, but Sibyl, gentle as she looked, had the eyes of a hawk.

      “Something is fretting my ownest mother,” she whispered under her breath, and then she took her mother’s soft hand and covered it with kisses. After kissing it, she patted it, and then she returned to her father’s side.

      Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Ogilvie knew why, but as soon as Sibyl entered the room it seemed ridiculous for them to quarrel. Mrs. Ogilvie turned with an effort, said something kind to her husband, he responded courteously, then the dinner gong sounded, and the three entered the dining-room.

      It was one of the customs of the house that Sibyl, when they dined alone, should always sit with her parents during this hour. Mrs. Ogilvie objected to the plan, urging that it was very bad for the child. But Ogilvie thought otherwise, and notwithstanding all the mother’s objections the point was carried. A high chair was placed for Sibyl next her father, and she occupied it evening after evening, nibbling a biscuit from the dessert, and airing her views in a complacent way on every possible subject under the sun.

      “I call Miss Winstead crosspatch now,” she said on this occasion. “She is more cranky than you think. She is, really, truly, father.”

      “You must not talk against your governess, Sibyl,” said her mother from the other end of the table.

      “Oh, let her speak out to us, my dear,” said the father. “What was Miss Winstead cross about to-day, Sibyl?”

      “Spelling, as usual,” said Sibyl briefly, “but more special ’cos Lord Jesus made me pretty.”

      “Hush!” said the mother again.

      Sibyl glanced at her father. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes which he could scarcely keep back.

      “My dear,” he said, addressing his wife, “do you think Miss Winstead is just the person – ”

      “I beg of you, Philip,” interrupted the mother, “not to speak of the child’s teacher before her face. Sibyl, I forbid you to make unkind remarks.”

      “It’s ’cos they’re both so perfect,” thought Sibyl, “but it’s hard on me not to be able to ’splain things. If I can’t, what is to be done?”

      She munched her biscuit sorrowfully, and looked with steadfast eyes across the room. She supposed she would have to endure Miss Winstead, crosspatch as she was, and she did not enjoy the task which mother and Lord Jesus had set her.

      The footman was in the act of helping Mr. Ogilvie to champagne, and Sibyl paused in her thoughts to watch the frothy wine as it filled the glass.

      “Is it nice?” she inquired.

      “Very nice, Sibyl. Would you like to taste it?”

      “No, thank you, father. Nurse says if you drink wine when you’re a little girl, you grow up to be drunk as a hog.”

      “My dear Sibyl,” cried the mother, “I really must speak to nurse. What a disgraceful thing to say!”

      “Let us turn the subject,” said the father.

      Sibyl turned it with a will.

      “I ’spect I ought to ’fess to you,” she said. “I was cross myself to-day. Seems to me I’m not getting a bit perfect. I stamped my foot when Miss Winstead made me write all my spelling over again. Father, is it necessary for a little girl to spell long words?”

      “You would not like to put wrong spelling into your letters to me, would you?” was the answer.

      “I don’t think I’d much care,” said Sibyl, with a smile. “You’d know what I meant, wouldn’t you, whether I spelt the words right or not? All the same,” she added, “I’ll spell right if you wish it – I mean, I’ll try.”

      “That’s a good girl. Now tell me what else you did naughty?”

      “When Sibyl talks about her sins, would it not be best for her to do so in private?” said the mother again.

      “But this is private,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “only her father and mother.”

      Mrs. Ogilvie glanced at a footman who stood not far off, and who was in vain endeavoring to suppress a smile.

      “I washed my doll’s clothes, although nurse told me not,” continued Sibyl, “and I made a mess in the night nursery. I spilt the water and wetted my pinny, and I would open the window, although it was raining. I ran downstairs, too, and asked Watson to give me a macaroon biscuit. He wasn’t to blame – Watson wasn’t.”

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