g to that tenderness of
tone, sharp compunctions pricked her. Dear father!--it was horrible to
have to deceive him.

"I've brought you a little present from town." He was lighting the gas.
"Here!"

Her blinking eyes saw him place a big flat box on the bed. She fumbled
at the cords, accepted his proffered pen-knife, and then--oh, dear
heaven! There, fluffy, snow-white and alluring, reposed a set of white
fox furs!

"S-sh!" he admonished, smiling. "Mother doesn't know about them yet."

"Oh, father!" She couldn't say any more. And the father, smiling at her,
thought he understood the emotions which tied her tongue, which underlay
her fervent good night kiss. But he could never have guessed all the
love, gratitude, repentance, self-abasement and high resolves at that
moment welling within her.

He left her sitting up there in bed, her fingers still caressing the
silky treasure. As soon as he was gone, she climbed out of bed to kneel
in repentant humility.

"Dear Jesus," she prayed, "please forgive me for deceiving my dear
father and mother. If you'll forgive me just this once, I promise never,
never to deceive them again."

Then, feeling better--prayer, when there is real faith, does lift a load
amazingly--she climbed back into bed, with the furs on her pillow.

But she could not sleep. That was natural--so much had happened, and
everything seemed so complicated. Everything had been seeming to go
against her and here, all of a sudden, everything had turned out
her way. She had her white fox furs, much prettier than Genevieve
Hicks's--oh, she DID hope they'd let her go to church next Sunday
night so she could wear them! And she'd had a serious little talk with
Arthur--the way seemed paved for her to exert a really satisfactory
influence over him. As soon as she could see him again--Oh, she wished
she might wear the furs to the Library to-morrow night! She wished
Arthur could see her in them--

A sudden thought brought her up sharp: she couldn't meet him to-morrow
night after all--for she never wanted to deceive dear father again. No,
she would never sneak off like that any more. Yet it wouldn't be fair to
Arthur to let him go there and wait in vain. She ought to let him know,
some way. And she ought to let him know, too, that that man wasn't
father, after all. What if he was worrying, this minute, thinking she
might have been caught and punished. It didn't seem right, while SHE was
so happy, to leave poor Arthur