The child started and colored, as she raised her eyes from the book to
his face, asking, in a half tremulous tone, "What, papa?"

"Put down your book and come to me," he replied, seating himself.

His tone lacked its usual harshness, yet the little girl came to him
trembling so that she could scarcely stand.

It displeased him.

"Elsie," he said, as he took her hand and drew her in between his knees,
"why do you always start and change color when I speak to you? and why
are you trembling now as if you were venturing into the lion's jaws?--are
you afraid of me?--speak!"

"Yes, papa," she replied, the tears rolling down her cheeks, "you always
speak so sternly to me now, that I cannot help feeling frightened."

"Well, I didn't intend to be stern this time," he said more gently than
he had spoken to her for a long while; "but tell me, my daughter, are you
quite well?--you are growing very pale and thin, and I want to know if
anything ails you."

"Nothing, papa, but--" the rest of her sentence was lost in a burst of
tears.

"But what?" he asked almost kindly.

"Oh, papa! you know! I want your love. _How can I live without it_?"