THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

Hudson still lingered by the door, while his daughter shook down her hair in front of the little mirror, and began to weave it in and out of her crimping pins; putting her head on one side now and then, while she admired her handsome face with childlike self-complacency.

The unhappy man witnessed these movements with alarm. His anxieties regarding the girl had been terribly aroused that night, and her flippant answer to his suggestion about her prayers, deepened the feeling. Pushing the door farther open, he went into the room.

Constance did not look around, but giving the tress of hair she was crimping a vigorous twist, said, carelessly:

"You there, father, I thought you had gone up to bed."

"No, Constance, I want to talk with you awhile. Sit down here and make me a little happier before I go."

"Dear! I am so tired. This crimping is awful hard work when one is sleepy. There now, I can go on while you talk."

The girl seated herself on the side of the bed, and, with those magnificent tresses falling over her shoulders, went on with her work, looking at her father now and then through the floating web of hair that veiled her eyes.

Hudson sat regarding her for some moments in anxious silence. She saw that he was agitated, and wondered at it in a careless way, for there was little real sympathy between that man and his child.

"Dear me, father, what does make you look so down in the mouth? I should think all this good luck might cheer you up."

"Constance, my poor child."

"There it is again, just as if I were dead and buried, and you mourning over my grave. I don't see how you ever expect me to be happy here. If it were not for Mr. Sterling, I might as well live in a vault."

"But this money, Constance, I cannot accept it. We must not use a dollar of it."

Constance lifted her magnificent hair, and flung it back from her face with both hands, staring at her father with those great blue eyes, to make sure that he was in earnest. She saw in his pale, set face, the stern sincerity of his words, and flinging herself forward on the pillow, burst into a vehement passion of tears.

"Constance, my child, listen to me."

The girl clapped both hands to her ears and sobbed more bitterly than ever.

The poor man clasped his hands, and lifted them toward Heaven with a look of touching humiliation.

"Oh, my God," he murmured, "is my punishment coming from her; try me—pierce me—beat me down in any other way."

Suddenly his hands fell down helpless, his face drooped, and tears gushed to his eyes.

"It is but meet," he sighed, "that out of my sin should leap this keen punishment. Forgive me, Lord, that I dared to question thy eternal justice."

"What are you talking about, father," exclaimed Constance, lifting her tear-stained face from the pillow, "if it's trying to persuade me not to spend that money, I tell you it's of no use. I won't be mortified and put down all my life, when there is no reason on earth for it."

"But my child, the money is not ours."

"Of course it is ours, for I will work morning and night to pay for it. Darling old father, do let me keep it, and learn to be a lady. I could—I could—it is in me, I know, and this is such a beautiful chance."

"What is it you wish so much, Constance?" asked the father so mournfully, that the girl paused a moment in her headlong selfishness, but directly began kissing him, and smoothing his hair with her soft palms.

"What is it I wish, you precious old darling, first music—no, first dancing—don't start, it is only to learn how to walk and move like the ladies, who seem to swim up and down the avenue. Of course I don't care for whirling about, and cutting my steps off like mince meat; but real ladies all learn to dance."

"What next?" questioned Hudson, in a voice so anxious and pained, that she kissed him again before answering.

"Then there is music! When one has such a voice, it is a sin to let it run wild as mine does."

"True, my child, if we had money of our own to pay for lessons."

"As for the rest, my own darling father has done more for me, than the highest of 'em get at their boarding-schools. I can read beautifully—who could help it, with such a dear patient master—and spell without missing, which is more than can be said of your boarding-school girls. After all, it is only music and dancing with just a few nice clothes. It isn't very much that one wants. I won't ask for better rooms, or more furniture—not a thing."

"Ah, my child, if you will only wait."

"Wait! wait! What have I been doing all my life but waiting?"

"True, true!" said the father.

"And now that I see a way to earning money and getting my own living in a fashion that no lady can find fault with or sneer at, my own father stands in the way, and won't let me prepare myself. It's hard, it's awful hard!"

The unhappy man so unjustly and yet justly reproached, sat still for some minutes, dumbly thinking over the fearful position in which he was placed, on every side painful, even dangerous responsibilities fell upon him. He was not a strong man, and his nervous system had been fearfully shattered; he longed to be firm and to act rightly, but the power seemed to be wrested from him. With that young girl to whom he had never been able to render a parent's whole duty, a conscientious resolution would seem nothing less than cruelty. How could he make her comprehend the struggle that moment in his heart, the yearning wish to give her pleasure, and the fear which strangled the wish. He made one last effort to arouse the generosity of a creature, who could not be made to see how painfully he was placed without revealing that from which every nerve of his body shrank.

"Constance, if you were sure that it would make your father happy?"

"But you never were happy, father."

"True, true, but less miserable; would you not consent that I should send this money back, and wait till I can earn it for you with my own hands?"

"You can't, you can't! We but just get along as it is."

"I will give up my people, my poor people for a time, and work nights."

"As if I would let my own father do that," exclaimed Constance in high indignation. "Your eyes would give out in a week."

"God help me, I fear they would."

"Besides, if we could work nights, which I won't and you shan't, why not do it to repay the money, and save time."

"Constance, you press me cruelly," exclaimed Hudson, with a sad trembling of the voice, which bespoke his pain and his weakness. "But I tell you that it is neither safe nor wise for us to be indebted to the man who came here to-night. Between us lie bitter things, which can never be forgotten."

"But you are a christian, father; at any rate, Sterling says you are, and teach others to forget and forgive. I am sure this Mr. Church was kind as kind can be. While you were looking dark as a thunder storm, he sat smiling like—no, not exactly like an angel, but in a nice, gentlemanly way, as if malice never entered his thoughts. Now really, father, it seems as if you were the unforgiving one."

Hudson took his daughter's hand. His own was cold and trembling.

"Constance, if you love me, if you can pity a man who carries a heavy burden through a world, that but for you and one other would be a wilderness, give up all the vain thoughts that have been put into your head to-night, and let us go on as we did, before this man broke up our peace. I cannot use his money without degradation—worse than that, worse than that—without terror. I am not strong, like most men, and seem over timid, perhaps; but my own child should never think that; she should have some compassion, and not let the gold of a stranger become dearer than an old man's peace."

As Hudson spoke, Constance drew nearer and nearer to him, her passionate nature was touched; her bosom heaved under the first great effort of self-abnegation that she had ever experienced in her life. For the time she was inspired with noble impulses, such as would have made her a glorious woman, perhaps, had the surroundings of her life been different, as they had often done when she was a wayward romping child, her arms wound themselves around his neck, and her face wet with tears, was pressed to his.

"Never mind—never mind about it, father. We won't be hard on each other any more. I will do my very best to be good, and my own father won't ask me to give up quite everything, just as if it were a dream—and such a bright dream. Don't make me cry any more to-night. Oh! how I wish you had not set your heart against it. Now do go to bed, old darling, it is so very late."