ll devote the next
three evenings of your father's visit to him and to you. Give me a kiss,
and make it up." My daughter doesn't do things by halves. She gave him a
dozen kisses, I should think--and there was a happy end of it.

"But what shall we do to-morrow evening?" says Marmaduke, sitting down
by his wife, and patting her hand as it lay in his.

"Take us somewhere," says she. Marmaduke laughed. "Your father objects
to public amusements. Where does he want to go to?" Felicia took up the
newspaper. "There is an oratorio at Exeter Hall," she said; "my father
likes music." He turned to me. "You don't object to oratorios, sir?"
"I don't object to music," I answered, "so long as I am not required
to enter a theater." Felicia handed the newspaper to me. "Speaking of
theaters, father, have you read what they say about the new play? What a
pity it can't be given out of a theater!" I looked at her in speechless
amazement. She tried to explain herself. "The paper says that the new
play is a service rendered to the cause of virtue; and that the great
actor, Barrymore, has set an example in producing it which deserves the
encouragement of all truly religious people. Do read it, father!" I held
up my hands in dismay. My own daughter perverted! pinning her faith on
a newspaper! speaking, with a perverse expression of interest, of
a stage-play and an actor! Even Marmaduke witnessed this lamentable
exhibition of backsliding with some appearance of alarm. "It's not
her fault, sir," he said, interceding with me. "It's the fault of the
newspaper. Don't blame her!" I held my peace; determining inwardly to
pray for her. Shortly afterward my daughter and I went out. Marmaduke
accompanied us part of the way, and left us at a telegraph office.
"Who are you going to telegraph to?" Felicia asked. Another mystery! He
answered, "Business of my own, my dear"--and went into the office.

September 12th.--Is my miserable son-in-law's house under a curse?
The yellow-haired woman in the open carriage drove up to the door at
half-past ten this morning, in a state of distraction. Felicia and I saw
her from the drawing-room balcony--a tall woman in gorgeous garments.
She knocked with her own hand at the door--she cried out distractedly,
"Where is he? I must see him!" At the sound of her voice, Marmaduke
(playing with his little dog in the drawing-room) rushed downstairs and
out into the street. "Hold your tongue!" we heard him say to her. "What
a