"No, papa," said she, "I shall not be cold."

"But won't you come to the house? I miss you when you come in so late
that there's no time to say a word before we go to bed."

She got up and followed him into the parsonage, and when they were in
the sitting-room together, and the door was closed, she came up to him
and kissed him. "Papa," she said, "would it make you very unhappy if I
were to leave you?"

"Leave me!" he said, startled by the serious and almost solemn tone of
her voice. "Do you mean for always?"

"If I were to marry, papa?"

"Oh, marry! No; that would not make me unhappy. It would make me very
happy, Patty, to see you married to a man you would love--very, very
happy; though my days would be desolate without you."

"That is it, papa. What would you do if I went from you?"

"What would it matter, Patty? I should be free, at any rate, from a
load which often presses heavy on me now. What will you do when I
shall leave you? A few more years and all will be over with me. But
who is it, love? Has anybody said anything to you?"

"It was only an idea, papa. I don't often think of such a thing; but I
did think of it then." And so the subject was allowed to pass by.
This had happened before the day of the second arrival had been