Mr. Hamilton paused, and pushing back the fair hair from his
daughter's white brow, he kissed her tenderly, saying, "No, Carrie; I
want you to go. The journey will do you good, for you are getting too
much the look your poor mother used to wear."

Why thought he then of Carrie's mother? Was it because he knew that
ere his child returned to him another would be in that mother's place?
Anon, Margaret came near, and motioning Carrie away, Mr. Hamilton took
his other daughter's hand, and led her to the end of the piazza, where
could easily be seen the little graveyard and tall white monument
pointing toward the bright blue sky where dwelt the one whose grave
that costly marble marked.

Pointing out the spot to Margaret, he said, "Tell me truly, Maggie,
did you love your father or your mother best?"

Mag looked wonderingly at him a moment, and then replied, "While
mother lived I loved her more than you, but now that she is dead, I
think of and love you as both father and mother."

"And will you always love me thus?" asked he.

"Always," was Mag's reply, as she looked curiously in her father's
face, and thinking that he had not said what he intended to when first
he drew her there.

Just then the carriage drove up, and after a few good-bys and parting
words Ernest Hamilton's children were gone, and he was left alone.