I had a
feeling of being in the wrong, which is apt to make one vexed and
fretful, and it was this, quite as much as fear of my grave father,
which made the colour rush to my face, and the tears into my eyes.
"Come, Regie," he said, "out with it. Don't cry, whatever you do;
that's like a baby. Have you been doing something wrong? Tell me all
about it. Confession is half way to forgiveness. Don't be afraid of
me. For heaven's sake, don't be afraid of me!" added my father, with
impatient sadness, and the frown deepening so rapidly on his face that
my tears flowed in proportion.
(How sad are the helpless struggles of a widowed father with young
children, I could not then appreciate. How seldom successful is the
alternative of a second marriage, has become proverbial in excess of
the truth.)
My father was more patient than many men. He did not dismiss me and my
tears to the nursery in despair. With the insight and tenderness of a
mother he restrained himself, and unknitting his brows, held out both
his hands and said very kindly,
"Come and tell poor Papa all about it, my darling."
On which I jumped from my chair, and rushing up to him, threw my arms
about his neck and sobbed out, "Oh, Papa! Papa! I don't want him.
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