you, and I cannot have you call
me father till you treat me as the best friend you have. You may be quite
sure that I shall find a way to discover your thoughts, however cleverly
you try to hide them. If I find you deceitful and suspicious I shall
certainly entertain no regard for you. As soon as I have finished my
business at Amsterdam we will set out for Paris. I am leaving the Hague
to-morrow, and on my return I hope to find you instructed by your mother
in a system of morality more consonant with my views, and more likely to
lead to your happiness."

On glancing at my little daughter, who had been listening to me with the
greatest attention, I saw that her eyes were swimming with tears, which
she could hardly retain.

"Why are you crying?" said the mother; "it is silly to cry." And with
that the child ran to her mother and threw her arms round her neck.

"Would you like to come to Paris, too?" said I to her.

"Oh, yes! But mamma must come too, as she would die without me."

"What would you do if I told you to go?" said the mother.

"I would obey you, mamma, but how could I exist away from you?"

Thereupon my little daughter pretended to cry. I say pretended, as it was
quite evident that the child did not mean what she said, and I am sure
that her mother knew it as well as I.

It was really a melancholy thing to see the effects of a bad education on
this young child, to whom nature had given intelligence and feeling. I
took the mother on one side, and said that if she had intended to make
actors of her children she had succeeded to admiration; but if she wished
them to become useful members of society her system had failed
lamentably, as they were in a fair way to become monsters of deceit. I
continued making her the most pointed remonstrances until, in spite of
her efforts to control herself, she burst into tears. However, she soon
recovered her composure, and begged me to stay at the Hague a day longer,
but I told her it was out of the question, and left the room. I came in
again a few minutes after, and Sophie came up to me and said, in a loving
little voice,

"If you are really my friend, you will give me some proof of your
friendship."

"And what proof do you want, my dear?"

"I want you to come and sup with me to-morrow."

"I can't, Sophie dear, for I have just said no to your mother, and she
would be offended if I granted you what I had refused her."

"Oh, no! she wouldn't; it was she who told m