soon learned to smile in her new English home. Its gloom departed when
she came, and for a while it was a very happy place. My bitter moods
seemed banished by the magic of the gentle presence that made sunshine
there, and I was conscious of a fresh grace added to the life so
wearisome before.

I should have been a father to the child, watchful, wise, and tender;
but old Jean was right,--I was too young to feel a father's calm
affection or to know a father's patient care. I should have been her
teacher, striving to cultivate the nature given to my care, and fit it
for the trials Heaven sends to all. I should have been a friend, if
nothing more, and given her those innocent delights that make youth
beautiful and its memory sweet.

I was a master, content to give little, while receiving all she could
bestow.

Forgetting her loneliness, I fell back into my old way of life. I
shunned the world, because its gayeties had lost their zest. I did not
care to travel, for home now possessed a charm it never had before. I
knew there was an eager face that always brightened when I came, light
feet that flew to welcome me, and hands that loved to minister to every
want of mine. Even when I sat engrossed among my books, there was a
pleasant consciousness that I was the possessor of a household sprite
whom a look could summon and a gesture banish. I loved her as I loved a
picture or a flower,--a little better than my horse and hound,--but
far less than I loved my most unworthy self.

And she,--always so blithe when I was by, so diligent in studying
my desires, so full of simple arts to win my love and prove her