that jars all life long; and how much more frequently still
the harp, though retaining its sweetness and truth of tone to
the end, is gradually unstrung.

Poor Fleda could hardly hold up her head for a long time, and
recalling bitterly her unlucky innocent remark which had led
to all this trouble, she almost made up her mind, with a
certain heroine of Miss Edgeworth's, that "it is best never to
mention things". Mr. Ringgan, now thoroughly alive to the
wounds he had been inflicting, held his little pet in his
arms, pillowed her head on his breast, and by every tender and
soothing action and word endeavoured to undo what he had done.
And after a while the agony was over, the wet eyelashes were
lifted up, and the meek sorrowful little face lay quietly upon
Mr. Ringgan's breast, gazing out into the fire as gravely as
if the panorama of life were there. She little heeded at first
her grandfather's cheering talk, she knew it was for a
purpose.

"Aint it most time for you to go to bed?" whispered Mr.
Ringgan, when he thought the purpose was effected.

"Shall I tell Cynthy to get you your milk, grandpa?" said the
little girl, rousing herself.

"Yes dear. — Stop, — what if you and me were to have some
roast apples? — wouldn't you like it?"

"Well — yes, I should, grandpa," said Fleda, understanding
perfectly why he wished it, and wishing it herself for that