as she dropped her work
and knelt by his side. "I have kept you selfishly with me here, and made
you a slave to those children."

"My own brothers and my own little sister, father."

"Do you feel so, Anne? Then may God bless you for it! But I should not
have kept you here."

"This is our home, papa."

"A poor one."

"Is it? It never seemed so to me."

"That is because you have known nothing better."

"But I like it, papa, just as it is. I have always been happy here."

"Really happy, Anne?"

The girl paused, and reflected a moment. "Yes," she said, looking into
the depths of the fire, with a smile, "I am happy all the time. I am
never anything but happy."

William Douglas looked at her. The fire-light shone on her face; she
turned her clear eyes toward him.

"Then you do not mind the children? They are not a burdensome weight
upon you?"

"Never, papa; how can you suppose it? I love them dearly, next to you."

"And will you stand by them, Anne? Note my words: I do not urge it, I
simply ask."

"Of course I will stand by them, papa. I give a promise of my own
accord. I will never forsake them as long as I can do anything for them,
as long as I live. But why do you speak of it? Have I ever neglected
them or been unkind to them?" said the girl, troubled, and very near
tears.

"No, dear; you love them better than they or I deserve. I was thinking
of the future, and of a time when,"--he had intended to say, "when I am
no longer with you," but the depth of love and trust in her eyes made
him hesitate, and finish his sentence differently--"a time when they may
give you trouble," he said.

"They are good boys--that is, they mean no harm, papa. When they are
older they will study more."

"Will they?"

"Certainly," said Anne, with confidence. "I did. And as for Tita, you
yourself must see, papa, what a remarkable child she is."

Douglas shaded his face with his hand. The uneasy sense of trouble which
always stirred within him when he thought of his second daughter was
rising to the surface now like a veiled, formless shape. "The sins of
the fathers," he thought, and sighed heavily.

Anne threw her arms round his neck, and begged him to look at her.
"Papa, speak to me, please. What is it that troubles you so?"

"Stand by little Tita, child, no matter what she does. Do not expect too
much of her, but remember always her--her Indian blood," said the
troubled father, in a low voice.

A flush crossed Anne