that--sooner or later--but you mustn't distress yourself about it
beforehand. Don't cry--don't, dear!" said he, tenderly kissing her. "I
didn't mean to trouble you so. There--there--look up, dear--let's take the
good we have and be thankful for it. God will arrange the rest, in his own
good way. Fleda!--I wouldn't have said a word if I had thought it would
have worried you so."

He would not indeed. But he had spoken as men so often speak, out of the
depths of their own passion or bitterness, forgetting that they are
wringing the cords of a delicate harp, and not knowing what mischief
they have done till they find the instrument all out of tune,--more
often not knowing it ever. It is pity,--for how frequently a discord is
left that jars all life long; and how much more frequently still the
harp, though retaining its sweetness and truth of tone to the end, is
gradually unstrung.

Poor Fleda could hardly hold up her head for a long time, and recalling
bitterly her unlucky innocent remark which had led to all this trouble she
almost made up her mind with a certain heroine of Miss Edgeworth's, that
"it is best never to mention things." Mr. Ringgan, now thoroughly alive to
the wounds he had been inflicting, held his little pet in his arms,
pillowed her head on his breast, and by every tender and soothing action
and word endeavoured to undo what he had done. And after a while the agony
was over, the wet eyelashes were lifted up, and the meek sorrowful little
face lay quietly upon Mr. Ringgan's breast, gazing out into the fire as
gravely as if the Panorama of life were there. She little heeded at first
her grandfather's cheering talk, she knew it was for a purpose.

"Ain't it most time for you to go to bed?" whispered Mr. Ringgan when he
thought the purpose was effected.