carpet-bag packed, ready for a journey.

Am I not going too, papa?" she said, turning on him her face, as
though her heart was ready to burst with grief. It was their first
parting, and equally hard for parent and child.

"Not this time, darling, but in the summer we shall go to the
sea-shore and the mountains, and take Miss Vernon with us. Come,
this is your teacher, Dawn; I want you to be very good and obedient
while I am away," and then, looking at his watch, he bade them both
adieu.

He knew the child was weeping bitterly. All the way to the cars, and
on the journey through that long, sunny day, he felt her calling him
back. There could be no real separation between them, and it was
painful to part, and keep both so drawn and attenuated in spirit.

In vain Miss Vernon exerted herself to make the child happy. It was
of no use. Her delicate organism had received its first shock; but
in due time her spirit broke through the clouds in its native
brilliancy, and there was no lingering shadow left on her sky. Dawn
was as bright and smiling as she had been sad and dispirited.

"I will gather some wild flowers and make the room all bright and
lovely for papa," she said, and in a moment was far away.

"It's no use training her, you see, Miss," the good housekeeper
asserted, as a sort of an apology for the child, whom she loved
almost to idolatry, "might as well try to trap the sunlight or catch
moonbeams. She'll have her way, and, somehow to me, her way seems