"My dear Dorothy," said the minister, "it is time we should understand
each other. Your state of mind has for a long time troubled me; but
while debt lay so heavy upon me, I could give my attention to nothing
else. Why should there be any thing but perfect confidence between a
father and daughter who belong to each other alone in all the world?
Tell me what it is that so plainly oppresses you. What prevents you from
opening your heart to me? You can not doubt my love."

"Never for one moment, father," she answered, almost eagerly, pressing
to her heart the arm on which she leaned. "I know I am safe with you
because I am yours, and yet somehow I can not get so close to you as I
would. Something comes between us, and prevents me."

"What is it, my child? I will do all and every thing I can to remove
it."

"You, dear father! I don't believe ever child had such a father."

"Oh yes, my dear! many have had better fathers, but none better than I
hope one day by the grace of God to be to you. I am a poor creature,
Dorothy, but I love you as my own soul. You are the blessing of my days,
and my thoughts brood over you in the night: it would be in utter
content, if I only saw you happy. If your face were acquainted with
smiles, my heart would be acquainted with gladness."

For a time neither said any thing more. The silent tears were streaming
from Dorothy's eyes. At length she spoke.

"I wonder if I could tell you what it is without hurting you, father!"
she said.