ge; he looked to see what outward signs of change might
be visible. He saw a fair, slim girl, no longer a little girl
certainly, with a face that still was his child's face, he thought. And
yet, as he looked, he slowly came to the conviction that it was the
face of something more than a child. The old simplicity and the old
purity were there indeed; but now there was a blessed calm upon the
brow, and the calmness had a certain lofty quality; and the sweetness,
which was more than ever, was refined and deep. It was not the
sweetness of hilarious childhood, but something that had a more distant
source than childhood draws from. The colonel ate his breakfast without
knowing what he was eating; however, he could not talk to Esther at
that time. He waited till evening had come round again, and the lamp
was lit, and he was taking his toast and tea, with Esther ministering
to him in her wonted course.

'How old are you, Esther?' he began suddenly.

'Near fifteen, papa.'

'Fifteen! Humph!'

'Why, papa? Had you forgotten?'

'At the moment.' Then he began again. 'I sent your letter off.'

'Thank you, papa.'

'It was sealed up. Why did you seal it? Did you mean me not to read it?'

Esther's eyes opened. 'I never thought about it, papa. I didn't know
you would care to read it. I thought it must be sealed, and I sealed
it.'

'I did care to read it, so I opened it. Had you any objection?'

'No, papa!' said Esther, wondering.

'And having opened it, I read it. I did not quite understand it,
Esther.'

Esther made no reply.

'What do you want _comfort_ so much for, my child? I thought you were
happy--as happy as other children.'

'I _am_ happy now, papa; more happy than other children.'

'But you were not?'

'No, papa; for a while I was not.'

'Why? What did you want, that you had not?--except your mother,' the
colonel added, with a sigh of consciousness that there might be a
missing something there.

'I was not thinking of her, papa,' Esther said slowly.

'Of what, then?' The colonel was intensely curious.

'I was very happy, as long as Pitt was at home.'

'William Dallas! But what is he to you? he's a collegian, and you are a
little girl.'

'Papa, the collegian was very kind to the little girl,' Esther said,
with a smile that was very bright, and also merry with a certain sense
of humour.

'I grant it; still--it is unreasonable And was it because he was gone,
that you wanted comfort?'

'I didn't want