"Well," said Mr. Ringgan after a little, "how would you like it, Fleda?"

"What, grandpa?"

"To go out to Paris to your aunt, with this Mrs. Carleton?"

"I shouldn't like it at all," said Fleda smiling, and letting her eyes go
back to the fire. But looking after the pause of a minute or two again to
her grandfather's face, she was struck with its expression of stern
anxiety. She rose instantly, and coming to him and laying one hand gently
on his knee, said in tones that fell as light on the ear as the touch of a
moonbeam on the water, "_You_ do not want me to go, do you, grandpa?"

"No dear!" said the old gentleman, letting his hand fall upon hers,--"no
dear!--that is the last thing I want!"

But Fleda's keen ear discerned not only the deep affection but something
of _regret_ in the voice, which troubled her. She stood, anxious and
fearing, while her grandfather lifting his hand again and again let it
fall gently upon hers; and amid all the fondness of the action Fleda
somehow seemed to feel in it the same regret.

"You'll not let aunt Lucy, nor anybody else, take me away from you, will
you, grandpa?" said she after a little, leaning both arms affectionately
on his knee and looking up into his face.

"No indeed, dear!" said he, with an attempt at his usual heartiness,--"not
as long as I have a place to keep you. While I have a roof to put my head
under, it shall cover yours."