write your name, papa, I truly didn't."

"Do not add to your sin, by denials, my daughter. Did the fellow not
read my name?" Dwight regarded her as he said this, as if he were
somewhat disgusted at such persistent falsehood, and the others looked
a little as if their sympathy with the girl had received a slight
shock.

"But, papa, won't you believe me," sobbed the girl, clinging to her
mother as not daring to approach him to whom she appealed. "I only
wrote my own name."

"Your name, Eliza, but he read mine."

"Yes, but the pen was bad, you see, and my name looks so like yours,
when it's writ carelessly, and the 'a' is a little quirked, and I
wrote it carelessly, papa. Please forgive me. I didn't want to have
you killed, and I quirked the 'a' a little."

The Rhadamanthine frown on Dwight's face yielded to a very composite
expression, a look in which chagrin, tenderness, and a barely
perceptible trace of amusement mingled. The girl instantly had her
arms around his neck, and was crying violently on his shoulder, though
she knew she was forgiven. He put his hand a moment gently on her
head, and then unloosed her arms, saying, dryly,

"That will do, dear, go to your mother now. I shall see that you have
better instruction in writing."

That was the only rebuke he ever gave her.