"But he will! I know he will; and he ought to," returned Lulu vehemently. "Oh, hark!"

She stood still, listening intently, Grace doing the same. They had seemed to hear a familiar step that they had not heard for many a long month; yes, there it was again: and with a low cry of joy, Grace bounded to the door, threw it open, but closed it quickly behind her, and sprang into her father's arms.

"My darling, my precious little daughter!" he said, clasping her close, and showering kisses on her face. "Where is every one? you are the first I have seen, and--why, how you have been crying! What is wrong?"

"O papa! the baby--the baby's most killed," she sobbed. "Come, I'll take you to her and mamma!"

Fairly stunned by the sudden dreadful announcement, he silently submitted himself to her guidance, and suffered her to lead him into the nursery, where Violet sat in a low chair with the apparently dying babe on her lap, her mother, grandfather and his wife, and the doctor, grouped about her.

No one noticed his entrance, so intent were they all upon the little sufferer; but just as he gained her side, Violet looked up, and recognized him with a low cry of mingled joy and grief.

"O Levis, my husband! Thank G.o.d that you have come in time--to see her alive."

He bent down and kissed the sweet, tremulous lips, his features working with emotion, "My wife, my dear love, what--what is this? what ails our little one?" he asked in anguished accents, turning his eyes upon the waxen baby face; and, bending still lower, he softly touched his lips to its forehead.

No one replied to his question; and gazing with close scrutiny at the child, "She has been hurt?" he said, half in a.s.sertion, half inquiringly.

"Yes, captain," said Dr. Conly: "she has had a fall,--a very severe one for so young and tender a creature."

"How did it happen?" he asked, in tones of mingled grief and sternness.

No one answered; and after waiting a moment, he repeated the question, addressing it directly to his wife.

"Oh, do not ask me, love!" she said entreatingly, and he reluctantly yielded to her request; but light began to dawn upon him, sending an added pang to his heart; suddenly he remembered Lulu's former jealousy of the baby, her displeasure at its birth; and with a thrill of horror, he asked himself if this could be her work.

He glanced about the room in search of her and Max.

Neither was there.

He pa.s.sed noiselessly into the next room, then into the one beyond,--his wife's boudoir,--and there found his son.

Max sat gazing abstractedly from a window, his eyes showing traces of tears.

Turning his head as the captain entered, he started up with a joyful but subdued cry, "Papa!" then threw himself with bitter sobbing into the arms outstretched to receive him.

"My boy, my dear boy!" the captain said, in moved tones. "What is this dreadful thing that has happened? Can you tell me how your baby sister came to get so sad a fall?"

"I didn't see it, papa: I was out riding at the time."

"But you have heard about it from those who did see it?"

"Yes, sir," the lad answered reluctantly; "but--please, papa, don't ask me what they said."

"Was Lulu at home at the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would she be able to tell me all about it, do you think?"

"I haven't seen her, papa, since I came in," Max answered evasively.

The captain sighed. His suspicions had deepened to almost certainty.

"Where is she?" he asked, releasing Max from his embrace, and turning to leave the room.

"I do not know, papa," answered Max.

"Where was the baby when she fell? can you tell me that?" asked his father.

"On the veranda, sir: so the servants told me."

"Which of them saw it?"

"Aunt Dinah, Agnes, Aunt Dicey,--nearly all the women, I believe, sir."

The captain mused a moment.

"Was Lulu there?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; and papa,--if you _must_ know just how it happened,--I think she could tell you all about it as well as anybody else, or maybe better. And you know she always speaks the truth."

"Yes," the captain said, as if considering the suggestion: "however, I prefer to hear the story first from some one else."

He pa.s.sed on through the upper hall and down the stairs, then on out to the veranda, where he found a group of servants--of whom Aunt Dicey was one--excitedly discussing the very occurrence he wished to inquire about.

They did not share the reluctance of Violet and Max, but answered his questions promptly, with a very full and detailed account of the affair.

They gave a graphic description of the rage Lulu was thrown into at the sight of Rosie galloping away on the pony she had expected to ride, repeated her angry retort in reply to Aunt Dinah's reproof, and told, without any extenuation of the hard facts, how the baby girl, escaping from her nurse's watchful care for a moment, had toddled along to her sister, caught at her skirts for support, and received a savage kick, that sent her down the steps to the gravel-walk below.

The captain heard the story with ever increasing, burning indignation.

Lulu's act seemed the very wantonness of cruelty,--a most cowardly attack of a big, strong girl upon a tiny, helpless creature, who had an indisputable claim upon her tenderest protecting care.

By the time the story had come to an end, he was exceedingly angry with Lulu; he felt that in this instance it would be no painful task to him to chastise her with extreme severity; in fact, he dared not go to her at once, lest he should do her some injury; he had never yet punished a child in anger; he had often resolved that he never would, but would always wait till the feeling of love for the delinquent was uppermost in his heart, so that he could be entirely sure his motive was a desire for the reformation of the offender, and not the gratification of his own pa.s.sion.

Feeling that he had a battle to fight with himself ere he dared venture to discipline his child, and that he must have solitude for it, he strode away down the avenue, turned into a part of the grounds but little frequented, and there paced back and forth, his arms folded on his breast, his head bent, his heart going up in silent prayer for strength to rule his own spirit, for patience and wisdom according to his need.

Then he strove to recall all that was lovable about his wayward little daughter, and to think of every possible excuse for the dreadful deed she had done, yet without being able to find any that deserved the name.

At length, feeling that the victory was at least partially won, and filled with anxiety about the baby, he began to retrace his steps toward the house.

In the avenue, he met Edward and Zoe, who greeted him with joyful surprise, not having before known of his arrival.

The expression of his countenance told them that he was already informed of the sad occurrence of the morning; and Edward said with heartfelt sympathy, "It is but a sad home-coming for you, captain, but let us try to hope for the best: it is possible the little darling has not received any lasting injury."

A silent pressure of the hand was the captain's only reply for the moment. He seemed too much overcome for speech.

"Such a darling as she is!" said Zoe; "the pet of the whole house, and just the loveliest little creature I ever saw."

"Did you--either of you--see her fall?" asked the captain huskily.