love her father--though not nearly so well as her own
self-will--and his parting words brought a gush of tears from her eyes.
She was half inclined to call to him to come back, and say she would obey.

But no! her heart rose up in fierce rebellion at the thought of asking
pardon of his "new wife." "I'll never do it!" she repeated half aloud,
"and when I get sick and die from being kept shut up here papa will wish
he hadn't tried to make me."

So she hardened her heart day after day and refused to yield.

Her fare continued the same, her father bringing it to her three times
daily, now in silence, now asking if she were ready to obey.

She saw no one else but the maid who came each morning to put her room in
order; except as she caught sight of one or another from the window. She
liked to look at the sea and watch the vessels sailing by, but was often
seized with a great longing to get down close to the waves.

After the second day she grew very, very weary of her imprisonment and
indulged in frequent fits of crying as she heard the gay voices of Max and
the young Travillas at sport on the veranda, in the yards below, or knew
from the sound of wheels, followed by an hour or more of quiet, that
drives were being taken.

She knew she was missing a great deal of enjoyment. Being of an active
temperament, extremely fond of out-door exercise, made this close
confinement even more irksome to her than it would have been to many
another.

She had nothing to do. She had turned over the contents of her trunk
several times, had found her doll, and tried to amuse herself with it, but
there was little fun in that without a playmate. She had no book but her
Bible, and that she did not care to read; there was too much in it to
condemn her.

"Papa," she said, when he came with her breakfast on the fourth day,
"mayn't I go and run on the beach for ten minutes and then come back?"

"What did I tell you about leaving this room?" he asked.

"I know you said I shouldn't do it till I asked her pardon," she replied,
bursting into a fit of passionate weeping, "but I'll never do that, and if
I get sick and die you'll be sorry for keeping me shut up so."

"You must not talk to your father in that impertinent manner," he said
sternly. "It is not I who keep you here, it is your own self-will; and
just so long as that lasts you will remain here."

"I haven't a friend in the world," she sobbed; "my own father is cruel to
me since he----"