from the concurrent idea of the majority, which is supposed to be the
only true standard.

With a quick though earnest purpose, Mr. Dalton laid his strong warm
hand upon my head and turned my tearful face towards him. There was a
hovering smile around the pale, calm countenance that met my shy and
half averted look.

"Who is this?" he asked, peering into my misty eyes. "Is this Amey
Hampden, I wonder, or have I made some dreadful mistake?"

I saw immediately that he suspected me of having been a naughty girl,
and my sensitive pride was breaking into revolt. I tried to force
myself from his steady hold, but his knitted fingers were as iron
fetters about me. I had nothing left to do but give way to an outburst
of rising ill-humor, or through my gathering tears, to make an humble
confession of all that had passed that morning. While I debated with
myself I was conscious of his steady gaze being fixed upon me. I saw
the half-mischievous smile vanish from the corners of his eyes and
mouth; my lips were trembling with a suppressed sorrow. He saw it, and
bending over me asked in a tender, solicitous voice:

"What is the matter, little Amey? Are you ill? Come, tell me" he
urged, with a gentle firmness turning me around and taking both my
hands in his own large ones.

"No, no, Mr. Dalton, Amey is not ill" I answered, sighing and looking
away. "I wish she was though" I continued after a pause, "ill enough
to die."